


The Room Where It Happens

by FannyT, RedOrchid



Series: The Hunger Games Fusion Verse [2]
Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: 53rd Hunger Games, Accidental Sextape, Alec Is Fuckable In Sparkles, Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Behind the Scenes, Flirting, Gamemaker!Alec, Hamilton Lyrics Used As Inspiration, Hamilton References, Hunger Games-type violence (mentioned), Long Live Feedback Comment Project, M/M, Past Childhood Trauma (mentioned), Plotting, Secrets, The Capitol Is the Worst, The Revolution Will Be Televised, Waltzing, stylist!magnus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-08
Updated: 2018-08-29
Packaged: 2019-06-23 18:46:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 29,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15612603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FannyT/pseuds/FannyT, https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedOrchid/pseuds/RedOrchid
Summary: The lead up to the 53rd Hunger Games should be an exciting one for Junior Gamemaker Alec Lightwood. But when he meets up-and-coming stylist Magnus Bane, things take an unexpected turn.Epilogue added





	1. A Winter's Ball

**Author's Note:**

> Hunger Games AU! With a lot less violence than your average HG fic! Probably even what you'd call kid-friendly, if it wasn't for the Capitol being its usually morally corrupt self (also the explicit sex).
> 
> Big thank yous go to the lovely Mods of the SH Hiatus Big Bang, our wonderful betas @letswastetime and @demonic-activity, fanartist @kamz and everyone on the SH Hiatus Big Bang server.
> 
>  **Social Media stuff**  
>  We're on [Tumblr](http://actuallyredorchid.tumblr.com), [Tumblr](http://fanny-toric.tumblr.com) and [Twitter](https://twitter.com/actuallyme)  
> If you want to interact with this fic and/or nerd out with or without us about it, the social media tag is **#malecgames**
> 
>  
> 
> **(Any and all uses of this tag will 100% make our day. :DDDD)**
> 
>  
> 
> **Please enjoy!**

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Family ambition, political plotting and a chance meeting at a New Years’ ball.

President Snow’s New Year’s ball is a riot of noise and people. Not too much colour, this year, because the trend has been a white winter season, and no Capitol citizen on the make would dream of going against the grain. Still, Magnus concedes that they’ve done what they can with glitter and jewellery to try and stand out, leaving most of the partygoers resembling gaudy, overstuffed Christmas decorations. 

He’s opted for dark teal, himself, relishing in every shocked stare thrown his way. 

“You’re the absolute worst,” Dot mutters under the pretense of kissing his cheek, as he joins her at the main bar. “You’ve just about given Caesar Flickerman a fit, you know. Of course, he wishes he thought of it himself. Why can’t you ever just conform?”

“If I did, who would be there to snark judgingly with you?” he replies quickly, and she grins back at him. 

They both turn to take in the whole garish display of it all. 

For this year, the President has really gone overboard on the district theme. There are fir trees from Seven, hung with silk from Eight and pearls from Four. All the evening’s drinks and nibbles are district themed. And last but not least, several of the Hunger Games Victors have been roped into attending, with little stations demonstrating their own districts’ New Year’s traditions. Last year’s uninspiring Seven Victor is melting pewter to tell the future. A couple of Two Victors are arm-wrestling for good fortune in the coming year. The one-armed Eleven Victor is plaiting ears of corn into wreaths for every passerby in a surprisingly good-natured way. And then there’s Haymitch Abernathy, the Capitol’s darling, well into his third year as a Victor but with no sign of his popularity waning. He’s standing swaying on a table, bottle in one hand, inviting people up for good luck kisses. 

“A kiss or a year of loneliness,” he shouts. “Do you really want to risk it?”

The crowd around him cheers, and Magnus bites back a grimace. Abernathy looks ready to fall over at the merest push. 

“Pathetic, isn’t it,” Asmodeus breathes into his ear. “That boy showed such promise, and then he broke as easily as a twig.  _ Love _ .” He draws out the word, ending it in a mocking chuckle. “What a waste.”

Magnus takes a deep swig of his drink, refusing to give the other man the satisfaction of having him startled by his presence. “Hello to you too, father.”

“Hello, son,” Asmodeus replies happily. “Are you having a good time?”

“Perfectly nice, thank you.”

“You’re making quite a splash, as usual,” Asmodeus says, chuckling again. “I walked by some people earlier who were—quite literally—pale with envy at the attention bestowed upon you.”  

“That’s talcum powder for you,” Magnus replies, deadpan. “Most people simply look  _ dreadful _ in all white.”

Right on cue, a man dressed as a cheap-looking imitation of a snowflake walks past. Magnus waves his hand lazily in the man’s direction, and smirks. “As I was saying…”

“Fine, I will stop trying to be involved in your life,” Asmodeus says. “Now, about business…”

Magnus angles his head down and takes another drink, careful not to let his father see it as he rolls his eyes. “I thought you were supposed to be on vacation?”

“Well, there’s work, and then there’s—”

“Calling,” Magnus finishes for him. “Yes, father, I remember. And in the interest of not dragging this out: I have nothing new to report. The Winter season is fairly dull, as you well know.”

“That will change soon enough,” Asmodeus replies, unconcerned. “The Games always have a way to bring new talent to light—and on that note, please excuse me; Lilith and her spawn just walked in.”

Magnus watches him stalk over to the farther end of the room, sweeping into a courteous bow in front of an all-too-familiar woman dressed from head to toe in sparkling white. He shakes his head and makes a strategic retreat towards the other end of the bar, grabbing another drink for himself.

“Your dad is the opposite of subtle,” Dot tells him, materialising out of the background and appearing back at his side. “And, also, a terrible person.”

“You work for my dad,” Magnus points out. 

“I know. First hand experience speaking, here.”

Magnus laughs, taking her arm. 

“Come on,” he says. “Let’s go sneer at some Senior Gamemaker outfits.”

***

“Alec, your father and I would like to have a word.”

Alec turns around slowly, taking a couple of extra seconds to make sure that his face is showing the appropriate level of pleased curiosity. He’s successfully avoided running into his parents all evening, but now, his luck has clearly run out. He raises the glass he’s holding to his lips, buying himself another couple of moments of blissed ignorance, before his mom starts in on whatever new scheme she’s cooked up to advance their family.

“Mother. Father. How lovely to see both of you here. How was District Four? Still sunny?”

His mom raises an unimpressed eyebrow at his attempt to stall. “We need to talk about the upcoming nominations.”

Alec stiffens. The elections for who gets to join the various prestigious teams for next year’s Hunger Games will not take place until early spring. There’s been buzz about nominations for months now, but Alec’s done his best to keep away from it—in order to still have a shred of sanity by the time Snow announces the teams, if nothing else.

“What about them?”

“Not in here,” his mother replies, taking his arm and leading him away from the main ballroom and into a smaller room off to one side. “You never know who’s listening in.”

Alec looks around. He’s fairly sure that the room his mom’s lead him into is actually a closet of some sort. “Well, you have my attention. Now, what is it you wanted to tell me?”

His parents share a look, and triumphant smiles spread on both of their faces.

Alec’s heart misses a beat, and then immediately starts hammering in his chest. Because it can’t be. He’s too young. Too unimportant. Too stubborn for his own good when it comes to “making an impression” on those around him.

“No.”

“We were just told by the President’s secretary herself,” his dad replies. “You’re on the shortlist. And rumour has it that both the Starkweather boy and the Branwell girl have less people backing them than you have.”

Alec reaches out on instinct, steadying himself against the wall. His head spins. “I’m—”

“You’re a Lightwood,” his mom cuts in. “Your father and I have dedicated our lives to making sure that means just as much as it’s supposed to. Now it’s your turn to carry the legacy forward.”

“Congratulations, son,” his father adds, in a jovial tone that, nevertheless, manages to sound uncannily like a threat.

“Thank you,” Alec replies. He swallows, then clears his throat to make sure his voice will come out normal. “What position?”

“Junior Gamemaker, Weapons and Equipment,” his father says. He leans forwards and claps Alec on the shoulder. “A very good position from which to advance; we’re proud of you.”

“It’s a good speciality,” his mom agrees. “Everyone seems to want to go into mutts these days. A passing fancy, I tell you—they may look flashy and they’ve been getting a lot of good press lately, but I bet they’ll be out of fashion before the 60th Games roll around.”

“Sure,” Alec says vaguely, because he’s not really paying much attention anymore. Weapons are part of what makes each Arena unique and memorable—for the good as well as the bad. There have been some dubious choices in the past, especially the early Games that tended to rely too much on long-range weapons, but the ones where weapons and tributes intersect with forethought and planning have been spectacular. 

This could make his career. 

“Thank you,” he repeats, almost surprised to realise he means it. “I know how much you’ve worked to make this happen.”

His parents share another proud look, clearly happy with the outcome of their evening.

“We believe in you,” his mother says. “We have faith that you’ll make us proud.”

“Now go out there and celebrate,” his father breaks in, as always defusing Maryse’s intensity. “We can’t relax yet, of course. But this is a big step on the way, and we know you have what it takes to go all the way to the inner circle.” He grins. “And if all else fails, your mother has enough material on the Starkweather family to make your hair curl.”

“Robert!” Alec’s mother hisses. 

Robert laughs, giving Alec another hard clap on the shoulder. “Have a drink on me, son. God knows you’ve earned it.” 

***

“Oh, crap,” Dot says. “Incoming, two o’clock.”

Magnus turns his head carefully and sees Camille Belcourt striding through the crowd, all in pearly white, her head crowned with a sculpted mountain of lace and silk. She’s scanning the room, glaring in every direction through glittering eyelashes. 

“Hide me,” Magnus hisses. 

“I’ll do my best to make a scene. Go.”

Magnus flees gratefully, ducking behind a person dressed in some kind of large, sparkling cylinder that leaves only the eyes visible. Behind him, he can hear Dot start to whine loudly at the bartender about the vintage of her wine, pulling all the attention towards her. He sends her a grateful thought; Camille can never resist any kind of drama, however temporary it may be. 

He’s pushing his way through the crowd, keeping most of his attention focused behind him, when he bumps into someone. 

“Oh, I’m—” he begins, then looks back properly and finishes, “—sorry?”

The man standing in front of him is dressed in a dark, glittering tux, his only other concession to the winter theme the subtle snowflakes embroidered into his shirt. He looks to be somewhere in his mid-twenties, fresh-faced but tall and quite serious-looking. 

He’s also absolutely beautiful. 

“Sorry,” Magnus repeats. “I’m afraid I wasn’t exactly looking where I was going. Had to get away from a terrifying demon.”

He’s pleased when this startles a laugh out of the man. 

“That’s fine. I was escaping my own demons, actually.”

“Really?” Magnus gives the man another once-over, not even trying to make this one subtle. He thinks, suddenly, that he might recognise the cheekbones. Maryse Lightwood has been making the Capitol tremble with the force of her ambitions in the past two decades, and she hasn’t gone unnoticed even in Magnus’ more artistic circles. “How interesting to find a fellow escapee. I don’t believe we’ve ever been formally introduced? Magnus Bane.”

“Alec Lightwood,” the man says, taking Magnus’ outstretched hand and confirming his suspicions. “You, um, you were the Stylist for District Eight last year, right?”  

“Right,” Magnus says, smiling back. “Are you a fan of my work?”

Alec’s eyes fall away from his, and Magnus feels a small thrill go through him as they drop to his mouth, and then lower, to his chin, his throat, and then on to the large, cascading necktie made out of white orchids he’s wearing in lieu of a shirt. He shifts his weight, rolling his shoulders back and making the piece move ever so slightly, just enough to hint at the bare skin beneath.

“I, um—I liked your pre-fall collection, last year,” Alec says. “The box pleats worked really well with your wind theme. And the top stitching on the bodices was very well done.”

Magnus raises an eyebrow in surprise. “Why, thank you, Alexander. I have to confess: you don’t strike me as the typical fashionista...?”

Alec grins and shakes his head ruefully. “I have a confession too: I may have borrowed those comments from my sister. She’s a model, and definitely a huge fan of your work.”

Magnus wracks his brain. He’s been around the Capitol fashion business long enough to know everyone who’s anyone. He’s never heard of a Lightwood working the runway—too  _ frivolous _ an option for such a politically inclined family, he supposes—but something about Alec’s eyes and the line of his upper lip definitely seems familiar…

He reaches out without thinking, holding up his index finger half an inch in front of Alec’s face, tracing the line of his lip in the air. The way the corners of his mouth turn into a smile makes it click.

“You’re Isabelle’s brother?”

“I am,” Alec confirms. There’s a distinct tone of pride in his voice.

“I had no idea she was a Lightwood. And she’s been working in the business for years—I’m impressed.”

“You should be; she’s the smartest person I know,” Alec replies. “She, um—well, her and mom don’t really see eye to eye on her ‘career choices’, so she prefers to just go by her first name when she can.”

“Would you believe me if I said it’s started quite the trend?” Magnus asks, grinning. “All the other models try to imitate it; I had seven ‘oh, just call me Celestasia’s’ at my go see last week.”

Alec laughs, bright and sudden. It lights up his face and removes some of the tension Magnus realises he was carrying in his shoulders, leaving him… softer, somehow. More approachable.  _ Stronger _ , by some strange effect of contrast.

Several seconds pass, before Magnus suddenly notices how close they’re standing. Gravity has worked its power over them without him realising, it seems, pulling them from a mutual distance of polite conversation into something decidedly more intimate.

He clears his throat and takes a step back, grinning back at Alec, who notices their proximity as well and steps back with a sharp inhale.

“So, how are you enjoying the party?” Magnus asks, wanting to draw the moment out.

Alec clears his throat, his eyes dropping back down to Magnus’ lips for a split second before he catches himself and takes a sip of his drink to cover it up. “It’s nice,” he says, the inflection of his voice making it sound like a question. “I mean, it’s a party. Food, drinks, important people. What’s not to like?”

“Such enthusiasm,” Magnus teases. “I’m guessing you’re here for work rather than pleasure?”

“Is there anyone here who isn’t?” Alec counters, and, oh, Magnus  _ likes _ him.

“What’s your goal for the night then?” he asks. “What favour are you here to gain?”

A small, secret smile lights up in Alec’s eyes, and then it’s gone again, just as quickly.

“Can’t tell you. It’s not official yet.”

“That makes it even more interesting,” Magnus replies. “Come on, give me a hint?”

“Nope,” Alec replies. “I’ll let you make a guess, though. One.”

“High stakes, I like it,” Magnus says. “What do I win if I get it right?”

Alec puts a finger at the rim of his glass, gliding it slowly around the edge. “Try your luck and find out?”

Magnus  _ definitely _ likes him.

He takes another drink and considers the situation. Political campaigning and appointments are done in the fall, so the obvious answer would be that Alec is here for something Games-related. The entire winter season in the Capitol is basically a drawn out pageant—parties, events and an all-over media blitz to drum up interest for the summer season, with its next Hunger Games. Magnus himself has already been hard at work for more than a month to prepare, making sure that he’s in the position he needs to be to snatch one of the coveted Stylist appointments. Alec is clearly not in the same field, so that leaves the Escort and Gamemaker teams.

And he’s Alec  _ Lightwood _ . The answer is practically written in huge blinking letters over his head.

“Right, then, here’s my guess,” he says, taking a step closer to Alec as he says it, lowering his voice and thoroughly enjoying the way Alec’s breath hitches a little in his throat. “You and I will be seeing a great deal more of each other in the coming months.”

Alec startles, but quickly recomposes himself and leans forward slightly, standing his ground. “Bold guess. Are you really that confident you’ll get appointed?”

“As much as you are, I’m thinking,” Magnus counters, relishing the thrill that runs through him when Alec raises an eyebrow at him. “Keep owning it. Confidence is a  _ very _ good look on you.”

Alec chuckles, and then reaches forward, brushing his fingers against Magnus’ as he casually takes the drink from his hand and raises the glass to his mouth.

“Sorry, mine was empty.” His eyes glitter as he gives the glass back to Magnus. “Buy you another one to celebrate if it turns out you’re right?”

Magnus takes the glass, heat surging through him as he finds himself uncharacteristically at a loss for words. The moment stretches out between them, tension simmering like a promise.

“I’d like that,” he says eventually, surprising himself with how artlessly it comes out. Out of the corner of his eyes, he spots his father approaching, and sighs. “Duty calls, I’m afraid.”

“Yeah, I should get back as well,” Alec replies. 

Magnus watches as tension visibly seeps back into his shoulders, and winces in sympathy.

“Until next time, then,” he says.

“Next time,” Alec confirms, giving him a small smile before backing away, disappearing into the crowd of people milling about the room. 

Magnus looks down at his empty glass, then carefully angles himself to shield it from view as he refills it with a spark of his magic. It’s reckless, he knows—exactly the kind of behaviour his father loves to scold him for. If anyone were to see him doing magic, then—well. They’d need to live long enough to raise the accusation against him, first of all, he supposes.

“Come with me,” Asmodeus says, appearing back at his side and putting a light hand at the small of his back to steer him away. “Lilith had some very interesting news to share. We have work to do.”

Magnus sighs, inwardly saying goodbye to all the networking he had planned to do later that night. He meets his father’s eye, his back straightening as he nods.

“Lead the way.”


	2. My Shot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Magnus takes on a new client, and the final Gamemaker appointments throw Alec for a loop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Barging on with chapter #2!  
> Please enjoy!
> 
> Tumblr and Twitter tag for this fic is: #malecgames  
> (Any and all uses of this tag will 100% make our day. :DDDD)

“Drink!” Izzy’s voice comes from the hallway, followed by Alec’s front door falling closed and the sound of high heels being kicked off and flung unceremoniously onto the floor. Alec grins to himself and heads over to his bar, grabbing two pre-mixed bottles of Izzy’s favourite cocktail and a couple of glasses.

“I am dying,” Izzy proclaims when he enters the living room. She’s thrown herself on top of the couch, the dress she’s wearing draping dramatically over the edge of it. “Stylist nomination season is the  _ worst _ . I have three separate fashion shows booked this weekend, back to back. One catwalk is suspended in the air, and it  _ wobbles _ . Meliorn broke his heel and nearly fell off when we did the practice walk today.”

“Sounds dire,” Alec replies. He pours the first bottle into one of the glasses and hands it to her, then takes another look at her fed-up expression and pours in the second bottle as well. “How long until the worst is over with?”

“It’s rumoured that Snow will make his pick on Valentine’s Day,” Izzy says. “So another month, give or take. Speaking of, we need to get you a stylist.”

Alec startles. “Me? Why?”

“Because you’re going to be a Junior Gamemaker, and probably one of the most attractive ones this year,” Izzy replies, grinning, although there’s something cynical there that Alec decides not to pry deeper into. “You’ll do interviews and give demos and be part of the general pole dance routine to drum up interest for the Arena you’re helping create. You’ll be on the telescreens a  _ lot _ , come April-May. Trust me, you’ll need a stylist.”

“I still haven’t gotten official word; please don’t jinx me,” Alec protests, because the time for the Gamemaker appointments is drawing closer, and he’s starting to feel the nerves. “Besides, it’s not like I’ll be Head Gamemaker or anything. Couldn’t I just wear my regular clothes?”

He’s somewhat insulted when Izzy throws her head back to laugh at him. 

“Oh, big brother. No, no, sorry. You  _ cannot  _ wear your regular clothes. They’re barely acceptable to meet your sister for drinks in your own home.” She grins at him, then waves a hand dismissively. “Don’t worry. You’ll barely have to do any work. I’ll put together a shortlist for you, and you can go meet them and see who works for you.”

Alec meets her eye and then sighs, realising this is one argument he’s definitely not going to win.

“ _ Fine _ . As long as it’s not that Agoston guy who styled District Ten last year, okay? I don’t want to end up with purple hair.”

Izzy takes a sip of her drink to hide her smirk. Alec doesn’t know whether to feel comforted or yet more worried.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” she says, and then tilts her head to the side, pensively. “Now,  _ red _ on the other hand…”

Alec narrows his eyes at her in warning, and demonstrably storms out of the room, doing his best to ignore the laughter that trails on after him.

***

The last of his models steps off the catwalk and rushes to take her spot for the finale. Magnus follows her, pushing away the stress and exhaustion of the past couple of weeks. 

The spotlights blind him as he steps out through the curtain onto the catwalk, the applause of the audience melting everything away. He walks and waves, soaking up the cheers and excitement following in the wake of each of his creations. It hits him like pure energy, pulling him back to himself like a plant thrust suddenly out into the sunlight.

Moments like these make it worth it—the endless hours in his workroom; the clients who are never satisfied; the million and one little crises that happen around each fashion show. Not to mention his illustrious father and his  _ cause _ , which Magnus is expected to take part in, whether he wants to or not.

He breathes in, letting all of it fall away; right now, for the thirty seconds until he walks back behind the curtain, he’s untouchable. 

The applause follows him backstage, drawing out the sweetness of the moment. He accepts congratulations from his team, hugs the lighting department in gratitude and high-fives the models who walked for him and made his creations come alive. The backstage area is a whirlwind of faces, bodies, and voices, and Magnus lets them spin him, revelling in the high of success for as long as he’s able.

It ends with a simple word. A “Magnus?” spoken in an uncertain but demanding tone of voice, pulling him back from his euphoric state and back to reality.

He turns around, putting a smile on his face for whoever requires his attention. “Yes?”

“I, um, my sister said I should come see you,” the man in front of him says, and Magnus recognises him immediately. Alec Lightwood.  _ Well _ . 

_ When Isabelle asks you for a favour, she certainly doesn’t stall to collect _ , Magnus thinks. He holds out his hand, feeling his smile come a bit more naturally when Alec takes it. “Isabelle works fast, doesn’t she?”

“I told her to wait, but she wouldn’t have it,” Alec replies, sounding adorably disgruntled. “Apparently, once the Stylist appointments are official, you’ll be so busy, not even she would be able to get you to take on another client? So she insisted I come by today.”

“On the day of my winter fashion show?”

Alec’s eyes widen. He looks around, as though he’s just now fully registering the ordered chaos going on around them. “Shit. This is a really bad time, isn’t it? I’m sorry. I’ll kill Izzy the first chance I get, don’t worry—”

Magnus stops him with a grin and a hand on his arm. “Don’t worry about it.”

“No, but you’re clearly busy,” Alec argues. “I should come back another time.”

He sounds completely sincere. Magnus finds himself biting back the polite stock phrases about being fully booked at the moment that are on the tip of his tongue, and instead gesturing for Alec to follow him.

He leads them to the room that is temporarily serving as his office, rationalising that he promised Isabelle that he would give her brother a chance, in spite of the fact that his calendar is fully booked until after the Games, _ at least _ . The only thing that would open it up right now would be if his luck changed and he didn’t get the Stylist appointment he’s counting on.

Of course, in a certain sense it would be a relief not to have to go near the Games again, but a cold shiver runs down his spine at the thought of what his father would say.

“Here we are,” he says, ushering Alec inside and closing the door behind him. “Well, then, make your case.”

“Oh,” Alec says. “Um, wow. I—uh, I don’t actually have one? To be honest, this isn’t really my sort of thing.”

Magnus stifles a smile. “You don’t say,” he quips. Alec is wearing clothes so pedestrian he’s all but melting into the background—which ought not to be possible, given his height, smile and general outrageously good looks. 

Magnus has to admit; he would like to see how Alec turns out when he’s properly styled. He’s already started sorting through patterns in his head, a royal blue floral calling for his attention and just screaming to be placed against Alec’s skin. 

But he can’t. He has far too much to do, even without the increasing demands his father will put on his remaining free time, come the Games. He absolutely cannot stretch his cramped schedule even further. 

“I’m a bit nervous about the whole getting styled thing,” Alec is continuing. “So that was why I was actually really pleased when Izzy suggested you.”

He smiles, and there’s the  _ other  _ reason Magnus really can’t take him on as a client. A stylist/client relationship has to be professional—even more so if the rumours are true about Alec’s chances of snatching a spot on the Gamemaker team—and right now, almost all he can think about is what it would be like to lead this man to his bed. 

“Well, I’m flattered,” he begins. Alec holds up his hands. 

“I get it,” he says. “I can tell you probably have too much to do to find shirts for me.”

“Another year, perhaps,” Magnus says lamely. Alec grins. 

“If I survive this one first. Depending on who we go with, I may have to get ready for having my hair replaced with leaves or something.”

Magnus blinks. “Oh no. Don’t tell me Izzy included  _ Dendrocnide  _ on your list?”

“Maybe?” Alec grins again. “There were a lot of names. She’s been styling District Seven for about ten years, I think.”

“Oh, no, you absolutely can’t have her style you,” Magnus protests. “That one has to go.”

Alec laughs. “She is pretty far down on the list,” he says. “But I’m meeting with, um, let’s see.” He checks a note. “Caesar Flickerman and Jubilee Tawder, this afternoon.”

Magnus draws in a breath. “ _ No _ ,” he says, firmly. “Caesar colour coordinates his  _ hair  _ with his  _ eyebrows _ , and doesn’t even follow the season’s colours. His idea of subtle is not making a  _ gilded _ feather gown for a Canary Party! And let’s not get started on Jubilee.” He lowers his voice. “She uses  _ spandex _ .”

“And that’s… a bad thing?” Alec asks, looking honestly uncertain.

And no.  _ No _ . Cramped schedule or not, Magnus can absolutely not stand by and let that happen.

“How’s Thursday night for a first fitting?” he says.

Alec frowns. “I thought you were too busy?”

“I’ll make time,” Magnus replies, mentally starting to think of what kind of emergency he can invent to get Cat and Ragnor off his back when he bails on their sacred, monthly Margarita night. “Here, let me give you my home address.”

“Your—I’m not meeting you at your office?” Alec asks, and there’s a hint of blush on his cheeks that Magnus would  _ love _ to investigate further.

Instead, he pulls a business card out of his pocket, scribbles down his information and hands it over, careful not to let their fingers brush. “I have a home studio and workroom. It’s where I do most of my business, actually. The main office is more of an administrative place and showroom.”

“Oh,” Alec replies, and the colour Magnus can see in his cheeks intensifies, spreading down the back of his neck. “Okay, yeah. I’ll—um. I’ll be there. See you then.”

“Until Thursday,” Magnus repeats, smiling as Alec takes his leave. He’s still looking stupidly at the door when his phone rings, breaking him effectively out of his reverie.

He takes it out of his pocket, wincing as he reads the caller ID. He waves his hand at the office door, locking it with a quick twist of his magic, then plasters a smile onto his face and answers. 

“Yes, father? What can I do for you?”

***

Alec bounces lightly on his feet, looking straight ahead and trying not to pay attention to the people around him. He’s standing with the other Junior Gamemaker nominees, staring at two doors at the other end of the corridor. Three nominees have been called into the door on the left and two into the one on the right; one of them must logically be the discard pile. 

So far, however, Alec hasn’t been able to figure out which door is which. Starkweather, one of his primary rivals for his intended position, was called into the room on the right just a few minutes ago. Unfortunately, so was Underhill, who has been a Junior Gamemaker for four years already. On the other hand, the Blackwell siblings have been on everyone’s lips since their spectacular stint on the Games last year, and the brother has already been called into the room on the left. 

“Excruciating, isn’t it,” Lydia mutters next to him. 

Alec stifles an answering grin. “Want to bet they’re taping this as well?” he asks. 

Lydia just rolls her eyes in reply. She did her internship on Concept and Design at the same time as Alec, and was one of the only people there he’d actually consider a friend. They collaborated on a rock wall design for the 51st Games, and Alec can still remember the shared feeling of elation they had when they saw the final Arena; their vision translated from a computer simulation into actual stone. 

He remembers, too, how they later sat together in uncomfortable silence, when the girl tribute from District Seven tried to climb the wall and failed, falling to her death. Her panicked screams seemed to play on repeat in Alec’s head for hours afterward, impervious to the increasingly strong drinks he poured down his throat to make them go away. Lydia is the one who stopped him spiralling, switching the telescreen over to the History Channel to remind them both of the war that made the Games a necessary evil. She was always much better than Alec at that—at detaching, at looking at their job with calm logic, reminding Alec that they couldn’t afford to let their hearts rule their heads.

She’s definitely a strong contender for his position. 

An assistant signals for their attention and clears her throat. 

“Aline Penhallow,” she announces. “Enter the door on the left, please.”

A collective gasp spreads through the corridor. Aline is one of the surefire nominees—clever, well connected and absolutely camera ready. The left door it is, then, Alec thinks, watching Aline exit through it. Now, it’s just a waiting game. 

A few minutes pass, and then the assistant reappears, notepad in hand. 

“Lydia Branwell. The door on the left.” 

Alec clenches his teeth. As though to add insult to injury, the assistant then coughs theatrically and continues, 

“Alexander Lightwood. The door on the right, please.” 

Lydia has the nerve to throw him a sympathetic look as they walk down the corridor to their respective doors. Alec stares straight ahead, trying to look like he didn’t notice. He’s wracking his brains, trying to figure out where he went wrong. He and Lydia ought to have been at least on equal footing with support; the only explanation for her getting the appointment over him is that he messed up somewhere,  _ badly _ . 

He just can’t figure out where. 

He ducks into the door on the right, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck prickle with shame, wondering where the hell he’s supposed to go from here. Campaigning for Gamemaker spots can often take years, sure, but with the amount of work both he and his parents have put in, it’s hard to see this as anything other than a complete failure. He has nothing more to give, and he’s pretty sure his parents gambled most of their remaining social capital to get him to this point. 

“Mr Lightwood,” a voice says, and he looks up to see Valentine Morgenstern, Head Gamemaker, grinning back at him. Confusion wells up in him, then anger. If this is supposed to be some kind of cruel joke— 

“Welcome to the Gamemaker team,” Morgenstern says, his grin far too wide and somehow disconnected from the rest of his face. “What a  _ delight  _ to have Maryse’s son join us! I’m sure you will go on to do great things.”

For a few seconds, Alec only stares. Then realisation dawns. 

He’s  _ in _ . 

He manages to stop himself from a sigh of relief, bowing shortly to hide his turmoil. “Thank you, sir.”

“Your mother had an impressive run as Head Gamemaker,” Morgenstern continues, apparently oblivious. “She was, of course,  _ of her time _ . A lot has changed since the 38th Games!” 

He laughs, jovially, giving Alec a conspiratorial wink. Alec stares back at him mutely. His mother has never been very vocal about the maneuvering that led her to relinquish the Head Gamemaker spot fifteen years ago, but he’s gleaned enough to know that she definitely didn’t go willingly.

“How is your mother nowadays, by the way?” Morgenstern adds, his grin turning private and nasty. “I hear her little tea parties are  _ the  _ place to be on a Sunday.”

“She’s well,” Alec says shortly. “Thank you. I’ll let her know you asked after her.”

“You do that.” Morgenstern clears his throat, then throws out a hand to indicate the three Senior Gamemakers standing at the rear of the room. “Let me introduce you to your duties for the upcoming Games. You’ll be on Loss’ team, working with Arena Population and specialising in Weapons and Equipment.”

Alec breathes out in quiet relief, bowing first to Catarina Loss, then to the other two Senior Gamemakers. He remembers them both from his rotations in their departments during his internship—Imogen Herondale, formal and square; Malachai Dieudonné aloof and somewhat creepy. Out of the three of them, Alec’s relieved to be working with the one most like an actual person. He never had much to do with Loss during his rotation in Population, but from what he’s heard, she’s a pretty OK boss. 

“Nice to meet you, Mr Lightwood,” she says, giving him a short nod. “I expect you at eight o’clock sharp tomorrow for your first briefing. You’ll meet the other two members of the team then.”

“I’ll be there,” Alec replies. Inwardly, his mind is racing, trying to put together the pieces of the puzzle from the facts that he has. Being called from the group fairly early means that there are still a lot of dark horses, and while he usually would have been comfortable making predictions, Aline Penhallow and Lydia both getting cut has thrown him for a real spin.

He gives himself a mental shake, redirecting his focus to the task at hand. No matter who else made it,  _ he _ did, and Alec will be damned if he squanders the opportunity.

_ Junior at 25, Senior at 30, Head Gamemaker at 40. _ He repeats it in his head like a mantra, the words coming through, as usual, sounding a lot like his mother’s voice. He puts a pleasant smile on his face and shakes the hand of the three Senior Gamemakers, and then Valentine’s again, for good measure, before leaving the room.

_ Step one: complete. _


	3. Helpless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New acquaintances, familial pressure, and a masked ball.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who is following along with this fic. It makes us super happy to hear your thoughts about it.
> 
> If you have a moment, please reblog the [tumblr promo post](https://shhiatusbang.tumblr.com/post/176775877874/the-room-where-it-happens-by) for this fic on the SH Hiatus Bang blog.
> 
> And if you want to yell with Red about this fic over at twitter, she stalks the #malecgames tag.

“All right, my round,” Underhill says, holding up his glass for a toast and then draining it. 

“You are a quick drinker,” Alec complains, because he’s still working through his. “Give us time to catch up!”

“Give it a few years,” Underhill says, grinning around at the rest of the table. “After half a decade in the Gamemaker circle, you’ll start to chug your beer, too.”

He waves at them and heads for the bar. Alec hides a wince, remembering suddenly the high stack of autopsy reports for previous Tributes that got delivered to Underhill’s desk that afternoon, together with a note reading:  _ Medical background re: new tracker technology _ .

He takes a deeper swig out of his own beer, pushing the thought away again.

“Half a decade as  _ Junior _ Gamemaker,” Sebastian sneers from the opposite side of the table, once Underhill is out of earshot. “Absolutely pathetic. If you’re not Senior Gamemaker in three, you might as well not play the game.”

Alec refrains from rolling his eyes. Sebastian is unapologetically mercenary, slithering around and snooping relentlessly in everyone else’s work. He’s also delusional, if he thinks that the Senior Gamemaker positions are anything but political. Catarina Loss is extremely good at her job, yes, but she would not have kept her seat if she wasn’t also well connected. And everyone knows that the only reason Imogen Herondale has had her claws in the Structure and Technology department for twenty-five years is that she has dirt on someone in Snow’s cabinet. 

From what Alec’s heard, it’s something to do with ferrets. 

Raj, who’s heading into his fourth year on Herondale’s team, leans over and gives Sebastian a not-so-good-natured poke in the arm. 

“So how are things in Rocks for Jocks, then, Sebastian?”

“Natural Elements and Vegetation,” Sebastian snaps, predictably. “And fine, thank you. If  _ someone  _ didn’t put up roadblocks all the time.”

Lindsey Blackwell clears her throat, pushing her glasses up her nose. “It’s actually  _ really  _ fascinating,” she says, and everyone around the table groans quietly. “So, we had this problem last year, that certain plants just interfere with the mutt programming. We saw it most clearly with the birds. There was this strain of thyme—”

“Oh, are we doing war stories?” Underhill says cheerfully, arriving back in a very timely manner with a tray full of beer. 

“Yes please,” Hodge Starkweather mutters quietly, glaring over towards Lindsey. “You have to have some stories—you’ve been in all three departments, right?”

“No, I’ve never worked in Design,” Underhill says, nodding over towards another table, where the three Concept and Design Junior Gamemakers are sitting by themselves, muttering over a shared bowl of sangria. “Never been that unlucky. Don’t think I’d look good in a turtleneck.”

“You’ve been on Weapons and Equipment before, though, right?” Alec asks. “Got any tips?”

“Yeah, watch out for those guys!” Underhill laughs, indicating the designers again. “Seriously, they can be total nightmares. Two years ago, we had to redesign all the weapons two weeks before the Games started.” He rolls his eyes. “Apparently bronze  _ pops more on camera. _ ”

They all laugh—Alec somewhat nervously. He’s been going over weapons from the previous Games for weeks now, watching old Games a lot more times than he’s happy with to try to balance practicality with novelty. It’s meant having to watch some tributes’ deaths over and over, and he really does  _ not  _ want all that to have been in vain—to end up with everything scrapped for a design choice. 

“That was  _ such _ a problem last year with the mutts, as well,” Lindsey says. “They wanted everything to fit in with the spike theme, so we had to put horns on  _ every  _ mutt we sent in there. And in the end, it barely mattered, because only one tribute ever went up against them anyway and it turned out really underwhelming. But of course, from a design perspective it  _ was  _ a pretty fun challenge...” 

Alec looks away uncomfortably as Lindsey keeps talking about how pointy she managed to make the mutts, oblivious to everyone else’s dislike. There’s dedication to your job, and then there’s  _ dedication _ . The level that Lindsey has going on is definitely a few steps out of his own comfort zone, and there’s something about her utter lack of reflection about what her job means that makes his skin crawl. 

He feels someone’s eyes on him, and looks up, surprised to find that it’s Underhill, and even more so when the other man tilts his head towards the back of the bar, raising an eyebrow in silent question before standing up and excusing himself, citing a need to use the restroom. Intrigued, Alec takes a minute to finish the rest of his drink, then gets up and follows him.

He finds Underhill leaning over a pool table in the back, and props himself up against the wall to watch, clearing his throat to announce his presence.

“Glad you decided to join me,” Underhill says, looking up from where he just sank a striped billiard ball into its pocket. “You want to play?”

Alec looks around. They’re in a fairly secluded part of the bar, and the other people there all seem fully focused on games of their own. His curiosity increases.

“Sure.”

Underhill hands him a cue and gestures for him to go stand at the head of the table while he gathers the balls and sets them up to start a new game.

“I wanted a chance to talk to you on your own,” he says, after Alec breaks and they’ve switched turns a couple of times. “There’s something about you, Lightwood. You’re… different than the rest of them.”

Alec takes a swig of the drink he picked up from the bar on the way over. With anyone else in a similar situation, he would have assumed that the guy was flirting, but there’s… something beneath the surface with Underhill that Alec doesn’t quite know how to interpret. “How’s that?”

“With your pedigree, I figured you’d be all ambition,” Underhill, replies. “Your mother is a bit of a legend in Gamemaker circles.”

Alec feels a twinge of unease, intrigue morphing into something closer to wariness. “Who says I’m not?”

“Oh, you could be,” Underhill says, then lets the sentence hang in the air while he leans across the table to take his next shot. The ball goes straight into the back left pocket, and he straightens up, moving around the table so that he’s right by Alec’s side. “But my gut is telling me that there’s more to you than meets the eye.”

He flashes a smile before leaning across the table again, leaving Alec watching stupidly as he sinks another ball.

“Stick close to Catarina,” Underhill says quietly when he stands back up. He leans into Alec’s space, the hand not holding his cue sliding around Alec’s waist to the small of his back. “Word is that Morgenstern’s not at all happy with having a new Lightwood on board.”

He puts his cue down on the table and raises his hand to Alec’s face, cupping his cheek in a way that Alec suddenly realises perfectly hides their mouths if somebody were to be looking their way.

He lets his eyes flutter closed and leans into the touch. “Why are you telling me this?”

Instead of replying, Underhill leans their foreheads together, letting his hand drop to Alec’s throat, and then continue lower. “I like your shirt. Magnus Bane, right?”

Alec frowns, taking half a step back so he can see Underhill’s face properly. “Probably. Why?”

Underhill steps back too, with another smile and a wink, and Alec feels something small and square being slid into his shirt pocket. “I’m a great fan of his work, and he’s a hard man to get a hold of. Tell him I said hi?”

He walks off, presumably heading back to their table. Alec stares after him, completely bewildered. He reaches into his pocket and finds a calling card—generic 53rd Games (“Coming soon to a telescreen near you!”) stock, with the Gamemaker Office stamp and a scribbled row of digits that Alec assumes is Underhill’s number.

He considers throwing it away, but then thinks better of it and puts it back in his pocket. He doesn’t want to even  _ think _ about what his parents would say if they found out he—literally—threw away a shot at having one of the other Gamemakers owe him a favour.

Success in the Capitol is all about who you know, after all.

***

Magnus leans in close to the mirror, checking the carefully drawn lines of his liquid gold eyeliner one final time before sitting back and taking a deep breath.

This is it. Election night. Months of preparations and careful manoeuvering has got him to this point, and while his chances of getting appointed official Stylist for the 53rd Games are good, it’s by no means a done deal.

There’s a knock on his dressing room door, and then a voice calling out, “Five minutes, Mr Bane!” before moving on to the next one. Magnus stands back from his vanity and twirls once before his full-length mirror, to make sure every detail of his outfit looks just the way he wants it to.

Finally, he reaches for a mask made from gold mesh and embroidered extravagantly with black silk and onyx, tying it in place around his head. 

Showtime.

***

“Ow, Alec, watch where you’re putting your feet!” Izzy hisses, shoving him not-so-gently to the side and off her diamond-encrusted toes.

Alec winces, his hand going to the mask covering his face, trying to adjust it to see better. “Sorry. God, there’s  _ so many people _ in here.”

“It’s  _ the _ event of the season,” Izzy replies. “Stylist selection sets the tone for the whole fashion industry for the coming year. As well as for anyone who has a stake in it, which pretty much means every single influential person in the Capitol.”

“Right, but why do we have to wear  _ these _ ?” Alec asks, pointing at his mask. “What’s the point of a high fashion event where people can’t see the clothes properly?”

“Rule one of fashion, big brother: style over practicality. Everyone loves a masked ball—it’s so much easier to trade insults and indecent proposals under the guise of anonymity.”

“What anonymity? Everyone knows it’s Caesar Flickerman underneath that peacock mask. He’s been talking about it for weeks.”

Izzy gives him an amused look. “You’re keeping up with the stylist gossip all of a sudden, brother,” she says, grinning. “And sure. But feigned anonymity goes a long way. You’d be impressed with the amount of information people are willing to ignore to get a good thrill.”

Alec rolls his eyes behind his mask. “Spare me the details. How do we even eat and drink with these things on?”

“Through straws,” Izzy replies. “For drinking, that is. Second rule of fashion: don’t eat. Ever, if you can avoid it.”

Alec looks around the room; there are at least three fifty-foot tables that he can see, overflowing with delicious-looking food. His stomach growls, reminding him that he worked through lunch to make sure his prototypes for long-ranged weapons got done before his first deadline.

“You fill a plate and steal over to a dark corner, somewhere,” Izzy murmurs, taking pity on him. “Go. Get some food for both of us; I’ll come find you once I’ve made the rounds.”

Alec gratefully disengages himself from the crowd and moves over to the closest buffet table. 

“You better not get any sauce on that jacket,” someone murmurs next to him. “Best gabardine District Eight has to offer; I hope I wasn’t wasting it on you.” 

Alec feels his mouth turn up in a grin all on its own. 

“Magnus,” he says. Unlike most of the other stylists, who have opted for half masks in order to show off new lipsticks or beards or ornamentations, Magnus’s entire face is covered. But nothing can really disguise those eyes, looking back at Alec with amusement and something almost mischievous. “Hello, there. Thought you’d be off biting your nails with the rest of the nominees.”

“You think I’d bite these nails?” Magnus asks. “Do you know how much time they take to assemble?”

“No?” Alec says with a laugh, because Magnus’ fashion expertise, and Alec’s lack thereof, is quickly becoming a shared joke between them. “Twenty minutes?”

“Try  _ two hours _ and twenty minutes,” Magnus replies. “Speaking of, let’s see yours. No accidents, I trust?”

Alec obligingly holds up his hands for Magnus’ approval. “Come on, would I do that to you? I studied at the Clave Academy; if there’s one thing I know, it’s taking orders.”

“You make it far too easy to twist your words into some horrifyingly bad jokes,” Magnus says, and while his voice is all reproach, his eyes behind the mask are positively dancing. “That could be dangerous when you’re in front of the cameras.”

Alec scoffs—partly to hide the fact that he’s starting to feel some serious nerves about the fact that he’s going to have to get up and talk in front of said cameras in a couple of hours’ time. “I think Augusta Winkley has already used every bad joke in the book. Multiple times.”

“She’s held onto the Head Presenter crown for almost forty years now; I think we can cut her a bit of slack for recycling some of her jokes. The ‘Oh, daaaaaarling’s, on the other hand...”

Alec very narrowly avoids snorting out the sip of wine he managed to procure for himself. “Or the giggles. You can’t beat those.”

“They’re a brand in and of themselves,” Magnus agrees, solemnly.

“I heard she might be retiring next year.”

“Oh?”

“Don’t play coy,” Alec says. “Are the rumours true? Are you in line to take over after her?”

“Better coy than cryptic,” Magnus replies, winking at him from behind his mask and making Alec stifle another laugh. “There are—some people around who are pushing that option, yes.”

Alec frowns. “Not including you?”

For a split second, the brightness in Magnus’ eyes seems to flicker. Alec reaches out without thinking, his fingers brushing across Magnus’ wrist before he realises what he’s doing and pulls them back again. “Sorry, I—”

“It’s okay,” Magnus interrupts. “You can ask. Lord knows everyone else does.”

Alec winces. He definitely knows what that’s like. “That doesn’t mean you owe anyone an answer.”

He senses surprise at that, but Magnus slips easily back into casual, light-hearted humour. It’s becoming clearer and clearer to Alec that it’s his favourite form of defense—he can wear that smile of his like a shield sometimes.  

“Well, we’ll see how it all turns out,” Magnus says lightly. “I’m quite happy with my current work.” He winks quickly. “And, of course, Flickerman’s frothing at the mouth at the mere possibility; it would be cruel to take it from him.”

Alec smiles back. 

“You know,” he says, suddenly bold, “if you ever want to hash out the pros and cons of becoming the new Augusta Winkley over a drink, you know where to find me.” 

There’s another moment of surprised silence from Magnus. It’s not the first time either of them has made such an offer, but so far, at least one of them has had the presence of mind to pull back before they do something that put both of their careers at risk.

This time, however, heat flashes in Magnus’ eyes, intense and glittering, with an undertone of  _ intent _ that makes Alec lose track of who they both are for a moment. He suddenly gets the appeal of the masks that Izzy talked about—he’s still a Gamemaker, and Magnus is, very probably, just about to be appointed Stylist for one of the competing Districts, and thereby made officially off limits. But with their faces hidden from view, they can pretend to be strangers, free to explore the night and each other however they wish.

A hot thrill runs down Alec’s spine. He finds himself shifting closer, raising a hand to touch the bare skin at Magnus’ throat.

Magnus releases a sharp breath, and Alec sees his eyes fall closed behind the mask. The moment between them only lasts seconds, however, as Magnus clears his throat and takes a step back, effectively pulling them both back to reality. “I’m sorry, I have some rather insufferable social engagements I have to take care of,” he says. “Good luck up there.”

“You too,” Alec replies. His heart stutters and misses a beat when Magnus inclines his head in a courteous bow, perfectly in style with the theme of the party.

His eyes follow Magnus’ form as he disappears into the crowd. And then he shakes some sense into himself, turning his focus back to the buffet table, and his mind back to his task for the night.

***

Magnus tries not to laugh outright as Augusta Winkley, presenter for the Hunger Games and all around massive media hog, welcomes Alec up onto the stage with lavish air kisses. 

“Here to present the nominees for District Seven stylist,” she trills, waving a hand foppishly in Alec’s general direction, “one of the young Gamemakers working  _ tirelessly  _ to bring us yet another spectacular Hunger Games—Alexander Lightwood, everyone!”

There is polite applause, which becomes somewhat more enthusiastic as Alec removes his mask and gives a short bow. 

“Come, come, sit,” Augusta tells him, taking his hand and leading him to the upholstered sofa standing center stage. “Let’s get cosy over here, you and I. Of course, we’re all  _ dying  _ to hear who are in the running for styling District Seven this year, but we’ll  _ tease  _ them for a little bit longer first!”

The crowd  _ awws _ , on cue. Magnus rolls his eyes, safe behind his mask. 

“So, Mr Lightwood,” Augusta continues. “You are one of our new Junior Gamemakers. Can you tell us a little about what you’re doing?”

Alec clears his throat, sitting up even straighter than before. “Of course, Ms Winkley. I’m part of the group that populates the final Arena, with things like foliage, animals and specifically designed mutts, and also with weapons, survival gear and other equipment.”

“Oh!” Augusta exclaims. “So you are the people in charge of providing those memorable  _ tools of the trade _ , like Beetee’s deadly wire or Lyme’s hammer. Those things we never forget in a hurry!” 

The crowd cheers. Magnus notes one of the cameras zooming in on a woman who is gleefully pointing out her necklace pendant to her friends—a replica of the square, brutish hammer Lyme used to win her Games four years ago. He turns away from it quickly, trying to will his suddenly racing pulse back down to normal. It’s fine. He’s fine. 

“Exactly,” Alec says. “That’s my area of expertise, in fact: the different kinds of equipment provided to the tributes.”

“Can you give us any hints, then?” Augusta asks, digging a playful elbow into his side. “What is the hip new weapon we’ll all want to take up next year? I know we were all  _ so  _ charmed with those little butterfly knife things, five years ago.”

Magnus clenches his jaw. This is Augusta Winkley at her absolute worst—giggly, thoughtless and completely removed from reality. 

“I wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise,” Alec evades with a quiet smile. Magnus is happy for him. He’s managed this quite neatly, for his first time in the spotlight. 

“All right, all right, you keep your secrets, you naughty boy,” Augusta says, with the familiar exaggerated pout that had everyone swooning at the start of her career, but which is becoming rapidly more pathetic with each passing year. “We’ll all be looking forward to seeing the fruits of your labours, come summer. And now, don’t keep us in suspense any longer.  _ Who  _ will be styling District Seven this year?”

Alec clears his throat again, bringing out an envelope. “We have seen some spectacular work from several designers this year,” he says, his voice slipping into something clearly rehearsed. “We all remember the Secret Garden party in January, hosted by Oberon and Octavia Amadori, as well as the Gerbera Gown designed by Asterales Cason. But in the end, the person who’ll be styling District Seven this year is—” 

He cracks open the envelope and makes a show out of reading the name written on the card, although Magnus is pretty sure that every last person in the room knows what it says. 

“Dendrocnide Arbor,” Alec announces, and the crowd makes a rather lackluster attempt at a gasp. The lights swivel to find Dendrocnide at the far right of the stage, taking off her oak leaf mask with a flourish. 

“Who would  _ ever  _ have guessed that was Dendrocnide underneath that mask,” Asmodeus breathes into Magnus’ ear. Magnus grinds his teeth together. Asmodeus never really gets tired of that trick. 

“You have to hand it to her; she doesn’t even bother looking surprised any longer,” he says. 

“I see you’ve been getting to know the Lightwood boy,” Asmodeus continues, and Magnus feels a chill run down his back. 

“He’s been a little project of mine,” he says, trying for dismissive. “Turns out well, doesn’t he?” 

“Quite well,” Asmodeus says carelessly, taking a hold of his elbow. “On that note, let’s talk.”

“The Eight nomination is coming up in a minute,” Magnus protests. 

“Then we’ll have to be  _ quick _ , won’t we.” 

That tone of voice is the one that never accepted a no. Squaring his shoulders, Magnus follows Asmodeus away from the main press of the crowd around the stage, towards a quiet corner by one of the buffet tables. 

“We need to start putting some power pieces on the board,” Asmodeus says quietly. “Lilith is up to something—and if I know her at all, whatever plan she has cooking will not end well for me. Her son is perfectly placed to report every detail of the Arena back to her. I need similar access.”

Magnus stiffens. “Cat won’t—” 

“I know very well that ‘Cat won’t’,” Asmodeus cuts him off, scoffing. “Catarina is far too occupied with sentimental ideas of  _ saving _ people to be of much use to anyone. If she weren’t so very careful and so very well connected, she’d have been on Snow’s chopping block years ago. No, I have someone else in mind.”

“Who?” Magnus asks, intrigued despite himself. He does his best to stay away from the actual, well,  _ games _ part of the Games—burying himself in work and then drowning himself in parties as soon as the final ceremony is over usually does the trick—but there’s just so far he can remove himself from them, considering his… background. And he and Cat have ended up becoming really good friends in the fifteen years that they’ve known each other.

Asmodeus gives him a look, then glances pointedly towards the stage, where Alec is being lovingly shooed away after presenting Dendrocnide with a ceremonial gilded branch (the woman must have a drawer full of them by this point). 

Magnus’ heart sinks. 

“No,” he says, then catches himself. “I mean, I’m just his stylist. I don’t have that kind of influence.”

“Then I suppose you’ll just have to make yourself charming enough to  _ get  _ influence,” Asmodeus says nastily. “I’m sure you know how.”

Magnus swallows. 

“Father,” he tries. “I am going to be incredibly busy this season. I’m not sure I’ll have the time—”

“You will make time for this,” Asmodeus says, then leans in to grab Magnus’ wrist. “This is it,” he hisses. “Plans that are several years in the making are about to come to fruition, and we can _ not  _ walk into it blindly. We  _ need  _ that insight. You will not let me down in this, Magnus.”

He straightens up and then, as though the previous seconds didn’t even happen, smiles pleasantly. 

“Smile, Magnus. You’re about to get chosen.”

Magnus swivels towards the stage, and sees Claudius Templesmith, the new up-and-coming tele presenter, opening an envelope with a theatrical little cough. He turns back around again, but his father has of course vanished into thin air. 

“The stylist for District Eight is—Magnus Bane!” Templesmith announces. 

The spotlights find him before he even has a chance to remove his mask, so Magnus takes another couple of seconds to untie the ribbon behind his head, giving the crowd and the cameras the drama they’re yearning for. He walks up on stage with a wide smile, the satisfaction of being chosen dwarfed by the utter relief of knowing that he’s in step with the overarching plan. Claudius hands him a golden spool of thread, and Magnus raises it into the air, letting the cheers of the room wash over him.


	4. Wait for It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Discoveries, doubt, and a slow waltz.

“Ms Loss,” Alec says, opening the door to Catarina Loss’ office with his focus still on the new design parameters in his hand, “could I have a few moments to—oh, sorry.” 

Catarina is standing leaned over her desk, watching a small glass box containing tendrils of some sort of smoke. But she’s not alone—there’s a man standing next to her, making notes on a small handheld pad. 

“Mr Lightwood,” Catarina says shortly. “I was going over the fog element with Mr Latier. Did you need anything?”

“Sorry,” Alec repeats stupidly, trying not to stare. 

Beetee Latier won the 35th Games, the first Alec was ever allowed to watch. He was quiet and efficient, and Alec remembers how his face was on every toy box he got for his birthday that year—the same dark eyes looking up at him from everything from his new chemistry set to his first make-it-yourself, mini-mutt kit.

“Not to worry,” Beetee says, offering Alec a thin smile as he walks over to shake his hand. “Alec Lightwood, yes? How is the Gamemaker circle treating you?”

Alec swallows, taking Beetee’s hand. He’s seen victors in passing before—several of the One and Two victors were guests at various dinners during his internship years, and Haymitch Abernathy seems to be dating about half his social circle at the moment—but he’s never actually been introduced to one until this moment. 

“Good, thank you,” he manages. “I’m learning a lot. I—um, I wasn’t aware that you worked on the Games.”

Something flashes across Beetee’s expression, and he draws his hand back quickly. 

“I’m brought in occasionally,” he says. “Consulting on new techniques or weapons. President Snow is good enough to frequently remind me how much the Capitol values my expertise.”

He clears his throat and turns away, walking back to the table and picking up his notepad again, and Alec can’t help noticing that there’s a faint tremor in his hands as he does so. He looks over at Catarina, and finds her staring at her own hands, her jaw clenched. 

“I’ll leave you to your work,” Alec says awkwardly. “Um. When you have a moment, Ms Loss, I’d like to discuss how to handle some of the new requests that came down from Concept and Design.”

“Send me a memo, and I’ll look it over once I’m done explaining to Malachi that changing the skin colour and texture in mutts is not the same procedure in real life as it is in design software,” Catarina replies, waving him away. As Alec leaves, he sees her put her hand on Beetee’s shoulder for a moment, before they lean back down over their work.

He walks back to the Population team’s office and finds his intern Plutarch waiting for him. 

“What did she say? Can we go ahead with the crossbows or not?”

“Couldn’t get hold of her,” Alec says. “Table the crossbows for now, and move up the focus group meeting for knife design instead.”

“But if we’re going to have enough time to do the crossbows we need to—” 

“There’s almost two months to go, Heavensbee,” Alec snaps. “Please just do as I tell you.”

He watches Plutarch scurry away unhappily and then rakes his hands through his hair. The past couple of weeks have been filled with stupid arguments and power struggles popping up at every turn. Alec is heartily sick of it.

He also feels as though he’s fundamentally missing something.

He looks over towards Lindsey’s corner, seeing her gesticulating wildly over a computer screen with her three interns, who all seem to be just as enthusiastic as her about her genetically engineered killing machines. At the next station over, one of Sebastian’s interns is calculating and cataloguing the toxicity and fatality dose of a large number of plants, based on a tribute’s body mass.

Neither thing is something that should shock him. He’s taken part in the work that goes on in all departments during his own time as an intern, even though his years as a senior intern were spent mostly in the workshops and computer simulation rooms over by the technical college, instead of Gamemaker Central.

It’s not like he doesn’t know what happens in the Games. Or why they’re needed to keep Panem peaceful and prosperous.

Something knots itself in his stomach, regardless. Alec swallows, pushing it back down.

“I’m taking a break,” he announces, grabbing his jacket. 

“All play and no work, you are,” Sebastian mutters snidely, but Alec just glares at him and leaves. 

He’s standing on the roof of the Gamemaker building when he hears the elevator behind him open. The view is spectacular—one of the best in the Capitol, he’s been told. 

“There you are.”

Alec turns to see Underhill grinning at him. 

“Were you looking for me?” he asks. 

Underhill laughs. “Not me. Your interns, more like. You’ve been disappearing lately.”

“I only take sanctioned breaks,” Alec begins, feeling himself want to protest. Underhill laughs again. 

“I know, don’t worry. But I think they weren’t expecting you to be taking breaks at all, to be honest. You’re a pretty serious guy.”

Alec scowls at him, then back out at the skyline. 

“I just—” he begins, unsure of what it is he actually wants to say. “I need to get out, sometimes. I don’t know, working so close to the actual Games, it’s just made me—” He pauses again, then begins anew. 

“Did you know they’re making Beetee Latier work here?” he asks. 

He sees Underhill hesitate, and for some reason this makes him irrationally angry. 

“You know,” he states flatly. “You’ve known for a while.”

Underhill opens his mouth as though to say something, then stops and starts again. 

“It seems to bother you.”

“Of course!” Alec all but explodes. “Doesn’t it bother  _ you _ ? He was in that Arena. Isn’t it kind of awful that we’re making him  _ build _ it?”

Underhill gives him an unreadable look, and Alec feels his heart sink. He suddenly realises what he sounds like—how the words he just said could be taken out of context and used by anyone who needs any kind of leverage against him or his family.  

He quickly backpedals. “I’m sorry, that came out wrong. I was just surprised; a Victor doesn’t seem like the most objective person to bring in for a consult, that’s all.”

Underhill keeps looking at him with his worryingly neutral expression for another moment, and just when Alec thinks he can’t take it anymore, he moves forward with a small smile, clapping Alec on the back.

“Don’t worry so much, Lightwood,” he says. “And also—pro-tip—try to get some sleep once in a while. It helps with the crazy that being locked up in here all day brings out.” 

Alec forces a laugh out of his throat. He does feel crazy. The weeks since they properly started working on the Arena have been throwing things at him left and right, messing with his focus.

He needs to get that focus back.

“Thanks,” he says, clapping Underhill on the back in return. “I’ll take that under advisement.”

“You do that,” Underhill replies happily. And then, just as Alec’s feet feel solidly planted on the ground again, Underhill pulls the rug out from underneath him.

“If your words start coming out wrong again, come find me,” he murmurs, placing his lips right next to Alec’s ear. 

Alec startles, pulling away on instinct, his heart suddenly racing in his chest as Underhill raises an eyebrow at him in challenge, before stepping back into the elevator and pushing the button that has the doors close around him.

Alec stares after him for several long minutes, trying and failing to get his heart to slow back down.

_ What the hell is going on with these Games? _

***

“Would you please  _ stop _ pulling at your sleeves?” Magnus says, not quite able to hide his exasperation as Alec ruins his carefully pinned neckline once again.

“I’m sorry, I can’t help it,” Alec retorts, frustration clear in his voice as well. “Does the top really have to be this tight? I feel like my shoulders are trapped in cling film.”

“Okay, so first of all, it’s silk chiffon, and second of all, you 100% have the shoulders to make this work,” Magnus replies. “Just stand still and trust me to do my job, will you? This is what you’re paying me for, after all.”

Alec presses his lips together like he would very much like to reply, but keeps still for the couple of minutes it takes Magnus to re-pin the neckline and ease the shirt off of him. There’s something off about him, Magnus thinks. A nervous, unhappy kind of energy that he very much doubts comes only from having to stand still while Magnus tries to fit him for a couple of new outfits.

_ You will not let me down in this, Magnus. _ His father’s voice echoes in his mind, the words having been repeated with increasing levels of irritation too many times to count in the weeks since the Stylist selections. He’s supposed to draw Alec in, charm him to gain his confidence, and then complete his mission. It should be easy; it’s nothing he hasn’t done for his father before.

So why isn’t he doing it?

He expects Alec to grab for his regular shirt as soon as he can, and turns his attention toward the garment in his hands to give him some privacy, as well as to try and regain his focus.

He comes back out of his sewing room minutes later, finding Alec still shirtless, and does a double take.

“Everything okay?”

A flash of embarrassment crosses Alec’s face. “Sorry, I was thinking. Have you ever done one of these? These telescreen… things?”

Magnus smiles, charmed despite the way he just spent the last ten minutes telling himself not to be. “Depends on what you mean. I’ve been on my fair share of panels. Judging Reaping Day outfits, and so forth. A few of those charming little game shows that always pop up when the Games are closing in. And then of course a  _ lot  _ of interviews. I’m the young, up and coming thing, you know.” 

Alec laughs shortly, reaching for his shirt. “I guess. Of course.”

He looks really nervous. This is his opening, Magnus thinks. Nervous means insecure; insecure, he can definitely work with. He mentally squares his shoulders and pushes forward.

“You’re doing the dance-off tonight, right?”

Alec starts, in the middle of doing up his buttons. “Yeah. Some sort of Escort/Gamemaker battle, I think. Don’t really know why I’m supposed to be there; I’m not going to talk about my department’s work at all.” 

“That is not the point. The point is to get people excited about the Games.” Magnus lets that sentence hang for a moment, almost impressed at how not-sour it came out. “You’re there to be pretty and to get everyone invested. And you’ll be supplied with a professional dance partner. If you can do the waltz, you should be fine.”

He sees the look in Alec’s eyes. “You can’t waltz?”

“Only at a basic level?”

Magnus could not have asked for a better setup.

“Okay, step down from that thing,” he says, holding out a hand for Alec to take. “Over here, yes. That’s good. Now let me just find some music.”

“You don’t have to—” Alec starts. Magnus stops him with a smile and a single finger held up in front of his lips, pleased as he notices a slight bob of Alec’s Adam’s apple.

He chooses the music carefully. A slow waltz, achingly romantic. With the time restraint he’s under—from his father’s plans, to the Games, to the demands of his many clients—he doesn’t have time for finesse. The thought of using Alec like this makes something contract painfully in his gut. Magnus swallows hard against the rising nausea and reminds himself that it needs to be done.

Alec’s a  _ Gamemaker _ , after all. He doesn’t deserve Magnus’ sympathy.

“Follow my lead,” he says, guiding Alec's arms into the proper hold. “Eyes on me.”

From the way Alec’s breath catches in his throat, he’s expecting him to be tense at first, sees in his mind’s eye how he’ll have to loosen him up, step by step, until Alec melts in his arms. 

Instead, Alec lets himself be spun out, gracefully floating across the floor when Magnus moves with him into a promenade. Then, when Magnus leads an outside turn to bring them back into a closed hold, Alec adds an extra couple of spins to it, his right arm coming out to block Magnus from following as he moves around and behind him, his front to Magnus’ back. The same hand comes to rest at Magnus’ waist, the other on his forearm as he expertly leads them through a double reverse turn.

“You know, if this is what you call ‘basic level’, I’m really curious to know what you consider dancing well,” Magnus says, unable to keep a grin from spreading on his face as Alec turns him around in his arms, and then keeps on spinning them about the floor.

“Are you kidding, my rise and fall is  _ awful _ ,” Alec replies, with what strikes Magnus as complete sincerity. “Izzy was always so much better at these things than me. Our parents made us stop dancing together when she hit sixteen so that I wouldn’t keep holding her back.”

Magnus very nearly misses his cue for the next turn, making both of them stumble.

“Sorry, sorry,” Alec immediately says, then follows it up with a rueful smile. “Guess I just proved my point, huh?”

Magnus stops, his hands grabbing Alec’s to still his movement as well. “They were wrong.”

Alec frowns. “Who was?”

“Your parents,” Magnus replies, his fingers squeezing Alec’s a little harder to make his point. “You’re a wonderful dancer.”

“Magnus, it’s okay. I know I’m must seem like a nervous wreck, but you don’t need to give me a pep talk. I—”

Before he can think about what he’s doing, Magnus stops him with a hand at the back of Alec’s neck, pulling him down and pressing their foreheads together. Alec gasps, and whatever else he was about to say dies in his throat as his hands go to the front of Magnus’ shirt. He starts leaning in, and Magnus chin automatically rises to meet him before the reality of what he’s supposed to be doing hits him like a splash of cold water.

“Magnus, what—?”

Magnus shakes his head, not trusting himself to speak until he’s put a little bit of distance between them. 

“Sorry,” he says, even managing a little laugh. “That was so unprofessional. I’m sorry, Alexander.”

“Sorry—what—” Alec swallows. “Magnus, it’s okay. I want—” 

Magnus closes his eyes for a moment. This is too perfect, and too easy, and Magnus hates everything about it. Things would have been so much simpler if this had been about that oily little Starkweather boy, or the unpleasant Pangborn girl, or any of the other unfeeling people working around the Games. 

If it had been  _ anyone _ else.

_ He’s a Gamemaker _ , he repeats to himself, resolutely pushing away the rush of warmth that hits him every time Alec talks about his sister, or forgets himself for a moment and simply smiles at nothing in particular. He forces himself to think back—to  _ remember _ —and finally finds the resolve he needs.

Alec’s breath hitches in his throat as Magnus pulls him close again, and Magnus feels his pulse speed up beneath his fingers as he cups Alec’s face in both hands, their lips meeting in the lightest of touches. Alec moans as he breaks the kiss, chasing Magnus’ lips, pulling him back in.

Magnus lets himself melt in his arms, tells himself it’s to make the ruse all the more convincing. The kiss deepens, Alec’s lips and tongue moving against his, leaving something that feels far too much like fire in their wake. He loses himself in it, allows himself a few precious moments of indulging in the fantasy of what might have been, before slowly pulling back, wrapping his arms tightly around Alec’s back for a minute as he hides his face against his neck.

“I have to go; I have another client in an hour.”

Instead of moving away, Alec’s hands tighten their grip at the front of his shirt. “That’s an hour from now.”

“On the other side of town,” Magnus replies, fully improvising now. “Emerald Heights. You know what traffic is like at this time of day. Atrocious.”

For a second, Alec looks like he’s about to argue. Then he lets go of Magnus’ shirt and steps back, doing his best to smile, but mostly failing.

“Of course. Sorry, I know you’re very busy.”

“I’ll see you on Thursday, before your appearance on Quiz Night,” Magnus says, giving him a smile that he hopes hits the right tone between sultry and apologetic. “Until then…”

Alec nods, and quickly makes his excuses. Once he’s gone, Magnus walks over to the couch and sinks down, dropping his face into his hands.

***

With five weeks left to go until Reaping Day, Alec finally gets the go-ahead on the crossbows—with the caveat that they need to be workable even while wet. He spends three sleepless nights testing different designs and misses a fitting with Magnus. 

“Are you OK?” Magnus asks, over the phone. “I heard from a Gamemaker acquaintance that you’ve been putting in a lot of overtime lately.”

Alec grimaces, pulling yet another design drawing from his sketching book and crumbling it into a ball. “I’m fine. I’m sorry I stood you up.”

Magnus laughs, just as Alec realises how that came out. 

“You’re going to have to make it up to me,” he says, a teasing lilt to his words that makes a thrill run down Alec’s spine. “How about you say sorry with a drink? Eight, at that cocktail bar—Pearl something—next to Gamemaker Central? I promise to behave myself, if you will?”

Alec readily agrees, pushing his work to the side as soon as he and Magnus end their call and sprinting to his closet to figure out what to wear. It’s the fifth time he and Magnus meet up outside of work, and the times before have all ended in kisses that stayed with him for days afterwards.

He feels a stab of guilt as he flicks through his rack of shirts. He shouldn’t be rushing off for drinks with Magnus in crowded cocktail bars, where anyone might recognise them and start spreading rumours. On the other hand, being seen with someone as influential as Magnus in a crowded cocktail bar is supposed to be really good for his “brand”, whatever that means.

There’s also the part where being close to Magnus is  _ not _ conductive to Alec making good, rational decisions, and he’s seriously worried that he’ll snap one of these nights and put both their careers in the tank by making out with him in front of half the Capitol.

Magnus, on the other hand, is obviously doing his best to hold up his end of the bargain. He’ll pull back when they get too close, change the subject of conversation whenever they inch towards dangerous waters. As long as they’re in public, the only touches between them are casual, professional, even.

But later on, when they part for the night…

Alec closes his eyes, trying and failing to push the rush of emotions flooding him back to where they belong. He flashes back to the taste of Magnus’ lips, the desperate sound made low in his throat after the last time they went out, as Alec pressed him up against his garden wall as soon as they got past the gate, begging Magnus without words to come inside. He draws a shaky breath as he recalls the feeling of Magnus’ hands low on this back, beneath the fabric of his shirt, of their thighs slotted intimately between each other, giving way to slow, sinuous grinds of their hips.

Not for the first time, he selfishly wishes that the Games were over and done with. As a Gamemaker, he can’t afford to be seen to show favouritism toward any specific District or the people who work with it, which makes Magnus tragically and completely off-limits. Something he keeps forgetting, and Magnus keeps failing to remind him of.

He thumps his head back against the wall of his closet, hoping against hope that it will bring him back to a rational state of mind.

It doesn’t. Which means Alec is not equipped to handle this, which means, in turn, that the only decent thing to do, is to call Magnus back and cancel their meet-up.

He takes his phone back out of his pocket, and stares at Magnus’ number for a good long while. After which he groans in defeat and puts it away again, turning his attention to picking out the outfit that’s most likely to make Magnus Bane want to kiss him.

***

With a little over four weeks left to go until Reaping Day, Magnus fights flashes of nausea as reruns from the 36th Games play on every telescreen in the Capitol. He’s been trying to sketch out ideas for District Eight’s costumes for weeks, but everything comes out either simpering or far too honest and awful. 

“I’ve yet to see any results,” Asmodeus tells him at the countdown party, as the clock reaches midnight and everyone cheers for the fact that Reaping Day is now less than a month away. “ _ Don’t _ make me regret giving you this chance, Magnus. Remember where you’d be without me.”

He sweeps off, and Magnus swallows down bile and champagne in one sickening gulp. 

“Hey,” he hears behind him, and turns to find Alec right there, wearing the midnight blue Magnus picked out earlier in the week and looking absolutely amazing. 

This is  _ torture _ . 

“Hey, you,” Magnus says, trying for a flippant smile. It’s obvious, however, that Alec’s not buying it. 

“Your dad, right?” he asks, nodding towards Asmodeus’ retreating back.

Magnus nods and laughs, rolling his eyes. “He has great hopes for me. You know what parents are like.”

Instead of laughing with him, Alec takes a step closer, reaching out to put a steadying hand on Magnus’ forearm.

“I do,” he says, with exactly the kind of sympathy Magnus can’t handle at the moment. “Are you okay?”

Magnus forces a smile unto his lips. “Right as rain.”

“That’s such a weird expression,” Alec replies, and this time, he does laugh. “How did it even come about; everyone  _ hates _ rain.”

“In Nine, it’s considered a blessing,” Magnus says, realising much too late what just came out of his mouth. “You know, because grain grows with rain,” he adds with another eye roll, and then quickly plucks two glasses of champagne off the tray of a passing Avox. “Now, I want to know everything about your social calendar for the coming month; we have a lot of work to do.”

Alec groans, and immediately starts ranting about the stupid shows he’s been booked on to promo the games. Magnus nods in the right places and spurs him on, inwardly breathing a sigh of relief.

***

With two and a half weeks to go, Sebastian throws an unbelievable tantrum about having his idea about connecting caves shot down. Alec watches in annoyance, but also a certain amount of satisfaction. He’s been working non-stop for months, and it’s nice to lean back and just watch someone else take some heat. 

_ Need new material for a gown? _ he texts Magnus.  _ Because I’m pretty sure my boss is getting ready to sell Sebastian Verlac’s skin to the highest bidder _ .

_ Ew, no thanks _ , he receives back only moments later.  _ I only work with quality stuff, thank you very much.  _

Alec stifles a laugh and returns to his work, still smiling to himself. 

His team now has all the survival equipment and food stashes planned out and their placement in the Arena almost finalised. Most weapons are entering final design stages, and he has two more interns on standby for when Districts One and Two come in with information about their volunteer tributes’ strengths and preferences (should be any day, now). Once Reaping Day comes, work will kick back up again—especially in case some outlying district tribute turns out to have an affinity for a weapon they haven’t planned for—but until then, Alec has things in hand. 

Everything’s under control. He’s doing well.

He doesn’t know why he sometimes feels like his life is slipping away from him. 

*** 

Magnus paces backstage, trying not to let the disgust come through too clearly. There’s a gaggle of assistants watching the live camera feed, cheering and gasping at every unexpected turn; he’s trying not to let it get to him, but that’s turning out to be very hard. 

“And commercial is a go!” a stressed young woman shouts as she rushes past him, and Magnus squares his shoulders, settling into a smile. 

Alec comes off stage scowling, the training outfit Magnus designed for him last week tattered and soiled. 

“Let’s get you into the interview clothes,” Magnus says, trying to ignore the assistants squeeing in the background, one of them trying to snap a furtive picture. “Come on, I got us a room.”

Alec is sullenly silent all the way down the corridor, and Magnus starts to reconsider how to get his plans for this evening going. Once they reach the dressing room, however, Alec sighs deeply and sinks into a chair, his shuttered countenance giving way for something sadder, but also more open. 

“That was absolutely awful,” he mutters.

Magnus hesitates in the middle of arranging the next outfit. 

“I thought you did pretty well?” He clears his throat. “ _ Would you Survive these Games? _ is one of the worst shows available at this time of year, I have to admit, but I think you were probably one of the best contestants I’ve ever seen in it.”

Alec snorts. “Sure. I guess it’s official now. I could have,” he mimics Augusta Winkley’s voice, “ _ almost  _ survived Blight’s final day of his Hunger Games!”

He sighs, leaning back in his chair. “So, you know, at twenty-four, well fed and with  _ two arms _ , I  _ almost  _ managed that climb. I can’t believe he survived that.” He pauses. “I can’t believe we’re making a game out of it.”

For quite some time, silence just hangs between them. Magnus has no idea of how to break it. He feels everything he had planned for this evening, all the schemes his dad has been pushing on him, melting away in the face of Alec’s unhappy expression. 

“Five minute call!” someone shouts outside, banging on their door. Alec starts. 

“Sorry,” he says. “Never mind. I’m just a bit tired. That rock wall really was difficult!”

He laughs shortly, gesturing towards the clothes in Magnus’ hands. 

“Is that the interview outfit? I’ll change right away.”

He heads behind a modesty screen, but not before giving a playful smile. It’s not doing anything for Magnus’ resolve. 

_ I’ve yet to see any results _ . 

Magnus glares at himself in the make-up mirror, wishing he knew how to get out of this. 

Alec emerges from the modesty screen, outfit immaculate except for the bow tie. At this point, several months into their professional relationship, Magnus is starting to wonder if he’s leaving it crooked on purpose. As he reaches forward to correct it, Alec grins almost mischievously, which basically just confirms Magnus’ suspicions.

“Thank you for this,” Alec says, putting a hand over Magnus’ as he puts the finishing touches to the lapels of the suit jacket. “I don’t think I could get through these events without you.”

Magnus swallows. Alec’s really not making this any easier. 

“It’s my job,” he says with a careless smile. “Speaking of—you see mine every other day, but I’ve yet to see yours. I’m starting to feel like that isn’t fair!”

“You’ll see it soon enough,” Alec says, and there’s something dark hiding in that reply. “It’s only a little over a week to go, now.”

“The Games are the result, not the work itself,” Magnus protests. “You know what I mean. I’ve always wanted to see where the Games get made. Before everything goes completely crazy with last-minute arrangements, couldn’t you sneak me in for a look one night? Just for a bit?”

He grins and waits, watching Alec’s expression change from tired to confused to possibly intrigued and then around to worried. And then, just as Magnus thinks with a strange mixture of fear and relief that it will be a no, and that at least he can tell his father that he tried his best but it didn’t work out, Alec clears his throat. 

“OK,” he says. “Yeah, sure. Why not?”


	5. Stay Alive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A visit to Gamemaker Central, and important choices are made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last part of this chapter is very NSFW. Just FYI. (If you want to skip the steamy part, stop reading when they hear the security guard approaching and then skip ahead to chapter 6).

“Shh!”

Magnus presses his lips together, trying not to laugh. Gamemaker Central is completely empty and silent. Every noise they make as they sneak carefully through the corridors is amplified in the stillness, and it’s making him want to laugh with the giddy silliness of the situation. It feels like being a teenager—well, not like his own teenage years, but like the ones he’s seen in movies and shows over the years.

“Where is everyone?”

“Sleeping off the effects of the party last night,” Alec whispers back, eyes dancing with mischief as he slides his key card in the terminal of another door. “Early mornings are the only time when less people are here, and last night, the whole team hit the bars to celebrate the physical Arena  _ finally _ being ready. Valentine gave us all the morning off—there won’t be anyone in until ten, at least.”

“Very handy,” Magnus replies, sneaking an arm around Alec’s waist as they move down another corridor. “Does that mean I get the full tour?”

“Depends, can you actually be quiet? Because those heels on this floor?  _ Not _ subtle.”

He’s grinning as he says it, and despite the gnawing sensation in Magnus’ gut that comes from knowing what he’s here to do, he can’t help but respond to the look in Alec’s eyes by pressing them up against the nearest wall. 

The kiss centers him, but also makes the turmoil inside him ten times worse. It’s not just tricking Alec into bringing him here, but also the venue itself. Every other part of the Games—save the Arenas, which are blessedly different every year, and the Reapings, which he doesn’t watch—Magnus can rationalise and mostly push to the back of his mind.

Gamemaker Central is different; every office and lab and showroom that they pass is a testament to the carefully planned, calculated nature of the Games. There’s a greenhouse to his right inside which tall, green plants are climbing up a set of pillars. The way they sinuously wrap themselves tightly around the stone makes Magnus desperate to reach up and loosen his collar.

“Over here,” Alec says, pulling Magnus with him through a door. “What do you think?”

There’s nervousness and pride in his voice, and before he even looks at the contents of the room, Magnus knows that this is where Alec works.

This is where Alec takes an active part in what happens to twenty-four children every year. And unlike Cat, or—to a much lesser extent—Magnus himself, he’s by all appearances doing it without a secret agenda.

Magnus swallows hard, feeling suddenly faint. The room is filled floor to ceiling with weapons, everything from wooden staffs, to swords, to long-range weapons like crossbows and throwing knives gleaming from perfectly ordered rows. 

“Magnus, are you okay?” Alec asks, worry colouring his voice as he puts a hand on Magnus’ arm. “What’s wrong?”

Magnus shakes his head, pushing down the heavy tightness that settles in his throat. 

“Sorry,” he says. “Wasn’t expecting so—many of them. It’s kind of hard to imagine all of these will be used soon.”

“Not all of them will,” Alec says. “We have a lot of backups. And final decisions on which weapons actually go into the Arena only happens after the Reaping, when the year’s tributes have been taken into account.”

Magnus hides a wince. Talk about missing the point. 

As if he could hear Magnus’ thoughts just then, Alec’s expression changes, a nervous, almost haunted energy taking over. “Although I know what you mean, in a way,” he adds. “I don’t think you really realise an actual, um, person is going to be using these.” He clears his throat. “It’s a bit weird, I guess.”

He looks away with a shrug and an awkward grin, and Magnus reflects over just how many times he’s seen Alec do that lately. Say something that skirts the truth of what they’re doing and then wave it away. 

“So, I don’t know—do you want to see the recreation room? I have to warn you, the coffee is worse than anything Sebastian can cook up in his lab.”

Magnus forces a laugh out of his throat, trying to get his mind back onto the task at hand. “Thanks, I think we can skip that. But you were talking about some research and development the other day, right? Is that close to here, too?”

“Sure,” Alec agrees. “Catarina’s labs are right down this way. Ms Loss’, I mean.”

Magnus nods vaguely. Cat’s a good friend, meaning she knows enough to realise he doesn’t want to hear too much about her work. But he’s understood enough from her vague comments to know she’s developed something that will work beautifully together with his father’s plans.

“Here,” Alec says, indicating a series of rooms separated by glass walls. “Some of these are from old or scrapped designs, and there’s some things still in development for potential future Games. The big set piece for this year, though, is this fog.”

He gestures towards a room, and Magnus swallows again. Inside the room, the floor is covered with dense, gray fog, floating with unnatural stillness. 

“It’s going to provide mood and a certain amount of cover,” Alec says. “And then Catarina and a—consultant have been tinkering with it a bit to be able to adjust for periods in the Games when—”  

“Can we go in there?” Magnus interrupts. “I’d love to see it up close.”

Alec frowns, hesitation clear in his eyes. Magnus steels himself and waits with bated breath. This is it. He can’t fall at the finish line. 

“OK,” Alec says finally. “Hang on, I just need to adjust the settings so it’s safe for us...”

Yet another reminder of what all this work is for. Magnus clenches his jaw, closing his eyes as Alec enters a few commands into a panel on the wall and then opens the first of two connecting doors. 

“So right now, it’s just regular fog,” Alec says, opening the second door and inviting Magnus in after him. “But they’re able to change its density, movement and even colour to suit the needs of the Games. Don’t get me started on why that last one was necessary…”

Magnus nods, trying to not let on how shallow his breathing has become. The fog is almost up to his knees, and he’s trying very hard to not think about it rising higher, about breathing it down in wet, thick gasps. 

“Did you say you could make it change colour?” he asks, trying to make it come out playful and putting a hand to his hair. “Could you make it match my highlights?” 

“Depends on if you mean today’s or the ones from last week,” Alec says, grinning. “Hang on, let me have a look...”

As he turns away towards another control panel, Magnus breathes in and focuses, moving his hands together and then apart, twisting them to focus his magic where he needs it to go. Despite his general nausea, he can feel it respond immediately, and he pushes his fingers apart, sending his spell out into every droplet of fog inside the room at the exact same time as Alec hits a button on the panel. 

For a moment, nothing happens, but then the spell takes hold and the placidly simmering tendrils of mist coalesce into thick waves. The fog roars up above him and around him, and he is blinded. 

He’s twelve years old again, stumbling forward, panicked and disoriented, his hands held out in front of him but finding no assistance. His breathing comes out in ragged gasps, and he can feel it burn in his throat, the swampy, poisonous smell that  _ never leaves _ making it impossible to keep his thoughts together. His feet feel heavy and slow, halting onwards but bringing him nowhere. 

Something grabs at his arm, and he strikes out, flailing wildly at whatever apparition this turns out to be—tribute or one of those terrifying bird creatures… 

“ _ Magnus _ . Magnus, it’s me.  _ It’s just me _ . Can you—we need to get you out of here. Magnus, please…”

The words sound like they’re coming in from far away. There’s another touch on his upper arm, and Magnus punches towards it, hitting something (some _ one _ ?) warm and solid, who makes a pained sound and falls back. Magnus turns, willing his feet to run. He stumbles again after only a few steps, pain blooming as he crashes into an invisible barrier. 

He’s locked in. The thing that’s chasing him is coming for him, and he’s  _ locked in _ . He turns towards where he thinks it is, and desperately tries to reach for the knife he found the day before. He comes up empty; his only weapon is gone. This is it. He’s done for.

_ Wooosh! _

He stumbles backwards when the barrier he’s pressed up against suddenly moves out of the way. He loses the last of his balance, and even though his hands fall back to break his fall, he goes down hard against the marble floor, and— 

Wait.

He scrambles to get into a sitting position, sliding his hands over the smooth stone and trying to make sense of what he’s seeing. The fog is gone.  _ The swamp is gone _ . 

He collapses in on himself, sitting down with his head between his knees, trying to suck down breath. He blinks rapidly, trying to bring himself back to the here and now. Panic is still coursing through him, and it feels as though he’s breathing through a straw, his heart beating so fast he can feel it in his throat. 

“Magnus, I’m so sorry,” Alec says desperately next to him, but thankfully doesn’t try to touch him. “I don’t know what happened—something must have gone wrong with the controls. If I’d known—I’d never have gone in if—” 

Magnus shakes his head. If he puts all his focus into following the lines in the marble, he’s able to clear a fraction of the fog still swirling inside his head. He presses both hands to the centre of his chest, struggling to move them. Out. In. Out again. It’s fine; he’s  _ fine _ .

Far too slowly, the fog in his mind recedes. When it’s finally gone, and his breathing and heart rate have slowed down to normal, Magnus feels as though he’s gone ten rounds against the enormous woman in his gym who trains Peacekeepers as her day job. Sweat is running down his back and chest, soaking through his shirt. He doesn’t even want to know what his makeup looks like.

He forces himself to look up, at the fog that is now innocently flowing in cloudlike shapes across the lab floor. He reaches out towards it with his magic—the smallest of sparks, easily hidden in the palm of his hand—and feels a shadow of the same magic respond back to him from behind the glass.

He succeeded. His job here is done.

He gets to his feet—rather unsteadily—and brushes himself off. “Can we get out of here?”

“Of course, yes,” Alec replies quickly, sounding unsure and shaken. “Here, this way will get us right back to the lobby.”

He makes an aborted movement for Magnus’ hand, hesitating and pulling back at the last moment. They walk in silence towards the exit, while everything in Magnus screams at him to move faster.

He hails a car as soon as they’re back out on the street, ignoring Alec’s pleas to at least let him see him home, make sure he’s all right.

Magnus almost laughs at that last one. He hasn’t been all right for the past seventeen years.

The car takes off, cutting him off from Alec’s face, his words, the concern Magnus has no way of fielding at the moment, and leaving him in blessed, quiet darkness.

***

Alec is completely useless for the rest of the day. He checks his phone obsessively for a message from Magnus, forcing himself not to send any more of his own after the “I’m so sorry. Please let me know if there’s anything I can do” he typed out shortly after Magnus’ car disappeared.

He does his job on autopilot, approving design changes, double-checking inventory. They’re two weeks from Reaping Day, and there’s still much left to do. More design requests, more calls for variation; they haven’t even started on the supplies packs yet.

It all comes to a head when, in the early afternoon, Valentine Morgenstern comes down to their floor, walking between the labs and workshops and interrogating all of them on progress. Alec is in his workshop, trying to recapture some focus at the sanding machine. Morgenstern stops next to him, watching his progress for a long moment before pointedly reaching out and pressing the power button to shut the machine down. 

“Lightwood, what exactly are you doing?”

Alec straightens up. 

“Finalising equipment,” he says, and then manages to force out a, “sir.”

“We’re heading into the final stages now, Mr Lightwood,” Morgenstern says, as though Alec would have somehow missed this. “Two weeks until Reaping Day. Any intern can finish tent slats; I need you to focus on getting the Arena camera ready. We’ve received intel on the most likely tribute pulls from District Four, and we’re probably looking at a whaler for the girl. Where are my designs for her harpoons?” 

Alec grits his teeth together. “I thought District Four didn’t volunteer?” he says, although he knows what the answer will be. The “random draw” part of the Games was debunked for him some time in March. 

Valentine just gives him a look and clears his throat. “You know, Mr Lightwood, I can’t help but notice a certain hesitation in you lately. I trust I don’t have to remind you why these Games are necessary? The Districts’ barbarity during the uprising was unbelievable. Savagery the likes of which you couldn’t even imagine; terrorism and  _ magic _ , targeting the Capitol’s weakest without a hint of mercy.”

“I’m aware,” Alec says tightly. “Thank you.”

Valentine sighs demonstratively. “I really was hoping you wouldn’t share your mother’s simpering sensibilities,” he says. “She cost us three months’ design work in the last Games she worked with. I had two beautiful mutts lined up for a specific tribute, only for her to have them killed off instantly with an earthquake. Insufferable sentimentality.”

Alec blinks. “Sentimentality” is definitely not a word he associates with his mother. “I’m sure she had good reason.”

“Trust me, she didn’t; and the President most certainly agreed,” Valentine replies. “Now, I’ve been watching you closely since you started your first internship, allowing you to rise through the ranks—despite my reservations—because I thought you had the kind of rational mind needed to fully understand and accept a small, yearly sacrifice to save the lives of millions. Now tell me, Mr Lightwood, was I wrong to make that call?”

The unspoken threat hangs heavy between them. Every instinct Alec’s developed since he was old enough to remember wants him to submit, and to tell Valentine exactly what he wants to hear. He’s known for a long time that he’s a soldier, and that it’s not up to him to question the decisions of his superiors, no matter how horrific they appear to someone like him, who doesn’t have the full picture.

The thing is.

The thing is, he can’t convince himself that Valentine is right. Not anymore. Not after watching Magnus’ reaction to the fog; after feeling the panic of losing his footing on a wall too much like the ones he’s helped construct for actual Arenas; after watching Beetee Latier try and fail to hide his unease at simply being in Gamemaker Central.

It’s a hundred little things, but they all boil down to the same thing. And the answer terrifies him like nothing ever has before.

“I know my duty,” he tells Valentine, squaring his shoulders and raising his chin, the way his mother taught him. “You have nothing to worry about, sir.”

“See that I don’t,” Valentine replies, giving Alec a slightly-too-hard clap on the back before moving on to his next victim.

Alec goes back to his task, finishing it in record time before putting his tools away and checking his watch to make sure it’s close enough to his break that no one will think it’s strange that he’s leaving. He walks over to Underhill’s office, letting himself in and leaning back against the glass door in a way he hopes is suggestive enough to make everyone around them come to exactly the wrong conclusion.

“I have fifteen minutes until I need to go over the new weapons specs with my interns?”

Underhill, to his credit, hides his surprise in seconds, his mouth twisting instead to a sultry grin as he walks close to Alec and puts his mouth right next to his ear. “Rooftop, I’ll follow you in a couple of minutes.”

Alec nods, and then makes a show of adjusting his non-existent erection as he walks back into the main area and makes a beeline for the elevators.

***

Magnus cancels his appointments for the rest of the day. It’s a stupid move, he realises that, but if he sets foot in his studio and sees the wall of design ideas for the Tribute Parade right now, he knows he won’t be able to hold it together.

Instead, he changes into one of his more spectacular outfits—completely by magic, relishing the power surging through him as the clothes around his body change at his will—and heads out on the town.

One thing you can always count on in the Capitol: it’s always happy hour somewhere.

He hops from bar to bar, leaving the moment anyone in his vicinity brings up the Games. It means throwing back a fair share of drinks to avoid leaving them mostly-full behind, but that only spurs him on. The goal for the night is oblivion, after all.

He’s lost track of time and space when, in some god-awful dive bar in a less-than-glamorous part of town, his father tracks him down. He grabs Magnus by the waist and more or less hauls him out on the street, ducking into a nearby alley and making sure the coast is clear before summoning a portal and pushing Magnus not-so-gently through it.

Magnus stumbles out onto the familiar blood red carpet in his father’s study, and then immediately proceeds to being sick all over it.

Asmodeus doesn’t even scold him, just hauls Magnus back to his feet and cleans up the mess he made with a flick of his wrist. He brings Magnus into the lavish kitchen and pushes him down into a chair, conjuring a big glass of water in front of him.

Magnus remembers being twelve years old and sitting in that same chair, still shaking from the trauma of being pulled down, down,  _ down _ , unable to keep his tears back as he wondered what would happen to him.

“What happened?” Asmodeus demands, and then—completely unironically—slides over a glass of milk and a cookie.

Magnus takes a deep breath, pulling the cookie towards him. Asmodeus always did summon an excellent cookie. 

“You don’t have to worry,” he manages. “I did it. The magic’s in place, and I know it’ll work. I tested it immediately after; I know it’s set to do its job.”

Asmodeus leans forward, putting a hand on his shoulder and squeezing. “That’s not what I’m asking, Magnus. What happened to  _ you  _ in there?”

Magnus tries to swallow around the lump in his throat. Moments like these, when everything else between them melts away, all the schemes and plans, and only the caring remains—moments like these are the most difficult of all. 

“It was fog,” he says, almost without meaning to. “Just like in my Games. I thought I could handle it, but—”

Asmodeus doesn’t say anything to that, just tightens his grip on Magnus’ shoulder and pulls him into a hug. Magnus tries to resist it at first, but eventually finds himself resigning, melting into the embrace and drawing deep, shuddering breaths. 

“You’ll never go back there,” Asmodeus mumbles into his ear. “I promise you. I’ll never let anyone take you back.”

Magnus draws a last breath and disentangles himself. “Gamemaker Central is close enough to the real thing,” he says. “And  _ you’re _ the one who sent me in there.”

Asmodeus frowns at him. “To save others like you,” he says. “That’s all I ever wanted to do, Magnus.”

Magnus closes his eyes, breathing in deeply. “I know,” he says. “But this is it, for me. I can’t do this again. I quit.”

Asmodeus raises an eyebrow. “You  _ quit _ ?”

“I can’t keep taking on these missions. And I can’t continue being a Stylist, either. I’ll serve out my time, but for next year, you’ll have to get your scandals and information somewhere else. I can’t be near the Games like this any longer.”

“Magnus,” Asmodeus says. “I understand that you’re emotional, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

“This isn’t a spur-of-the-moment decision,” Magnus insists. “I won’t be a part of your schemes any longer. I can’t.”

He gets to his feet shakily, trying to focus enough energy to summon a portal back to his own home. Asmodeus watches him for some time, then sighs noisily and summons the portal himself. 

“Go home and sleep this off, son. And really think about what you’re saying. I think you’ll feel differently in the morning.”

As Magnus stumbles through the portal, his father’s last words follow him through. 

“You don’t resign from family, Magnus.”

***

They’re one and a half weeks from Reaping Day, and Alec is slowly going out of his mind. Taking a leap of faith and going to Underhill has thrown his life upside down in more ways than he cares to count. His mind is still reeling with the discovery that plans to overthrow the government have been in motion since before he was born—ever changing as new players get inducted or exposed—slowly gaining ground within the Capitol.

It’s making him question everything he thought he knew. 

“It’s slow progress,” Underhill tells him, late one night as they’re pretending to decadently ignore the opera. “Everyone’s been planning for the Hunger Games to be a catalyst, somehow. We had high hopes for Abernathy in the 50th, but Snow got to him before we had a chance.”

Alec frowns. From what he knows, Haymitch Abernathy won by a pure stroke of luck and then almost immediately threw himself into the Capitol party scene. “Why him?”

“Go watch the unedited footage of his last kill some time,” Underhill replies. “It’s smart, real smart. Far too clever for someone from District 12, if you want to keep up the narrative that people in the districts are all stupid savages and that the Capitol is untouchable.”

Alec nods, and then fakes a smile as Underhill pulls him close, tilting his head surreptitiously to indicate an audience camera that’s turning their way. 

“Oh, and we need you to take a message to Magnus Bane.”

Alec very nearly pulls away in shock, saving himself at the last minute by grabbing Underhill by the lapels and pulling him with him as he falls back against his seat. He hasn’t seen Magnus since their hasty parting after what will likely go down in history as the most failed romantic tour of all time. And now Underhill is implying that he’s of interest to the rebellion?

“ _ What? _ ”

“Magnus is a good friend of Cat’s,” Underhill replies. “He has access to the whole fashion élite, including their hanger-ons. There’s no one better to get a message into the pockets of the right people, and with the Games drawing near…”

Alec swallows, wondering just how blind he’s been to what was going on right next to him. He flashes back to Magnus’ velvet voice, the innocent questions about Alec’s job, bracketed by knee-weakening kisses.

No. Please, no.

He lets Underhill slip a piece of paper into the back pocket of his pants, then quickly takes his leave once the curtain drops. He walks the few blocks between the opera and Magnus’ studio, hoping the fresh night air will help clear his head.

***

Magnus startles as a buzzer sounds, notifying him that someone’s at his door. It’s a weeknight, and it’s late. He let his junior designers and assistants go home at eight, staying on alone to try and put the final touches on a gown for a Capitol debutante before her very demanding father comes to pick it up in the morning.

He unlocks the door, and is taken slightly aback at who he finds on the other side.

“Alexander? What are you doing here?”

Alec steps inside, and peers around the studio space while Magnus closes the door behind him. “Are we alone?”

“Everyone else left hours ago,” Magnus confirms. “What’s going on?”

Alec meets his eye, and—for a long, quivering moment—Magnus feels the space between them retract into nothing, in spite of the fact that neither of them is moving.

“I joined the rebellion,” Alec says, finally, lobbing the piece of information carelessly into the space between them. “John Underhill asked me to deliver a letter to one of their informants. Imagine my surprise when that informant turned out to be you.”

He pulls a letter from his back pocket and holds it out to Magnus. It feels like a challenge; Magnus doesn’t doubt that that’s exactly what it is.

He reaches out and takes the piece of paper from Alec’s hand. The questions Alec isn’t asking—along with the accusations he isn’t voicing yet—are right beneath the surface. Magnus straightens his spine, squares his shoulders in preparation of an attack. “Was that all?”

Alec’s shoulders slump, while his jaw sets angrily. 

“That’s all. Unless you have something you want to tell me.”

Magnus shoves Underhill’s missive into his back pocket and folds his arms. Anger flares in him—at Underhill, that shadowy figure who’s always remained on the other end of Cat’s insinuations, for outing him; at his father for bringing him into this crazy, difficult world to begin with; and most of all at Alec, for being all that Magnus had hoped he would be, but at exactly the wrong time. 

“What do you want me to say here, Alexander?” he says. “Yes, I’m doing what I can to stop these stupid Games from continuing. No, I never told you earlier. Would you have expected me to?  _ The heir to the Lightwood legacy _ ?” He lets that sink in for a few moments, then turns away. “I’m glad you’ve found your calling. It doesn’t mean we’re suddenly working together.”

Alec gapes at him. “We’re on the same side.”

“We’re not, though,” Magnus snaps. “You’re on  _ Cat’s _ side; I’m bound to my father. This game is far more intricate than I think you realise.”

Alec stares at him, then folds his arms together. 

“Explain it to me, then?” he challenges. “I want to know.”

Something in his voice makes everything boil over—the lingering dread of the fog, Magnus’ father’s vaguely threatening last words, and all the tension of the past few days. 

“You want to know?” Magnus repeats, bringing his hands together, fingers splayed to realise his magic. “ _ Fine _ . Don’t forget you asked for it.”

He pulls his hands apart, letting blue flame blossom between his hands and grow until he releases it, a burning chrysanthemum floating up between him and Alec until it dissolves near the ceiling.

Alec jumps back, clearly shocked, and Magnus waits for the other shoe to drop—for Alec Lightwood to turn his back and leave his studio, never to return.

“How did you  _ do _ that?” Alec asks eventually. There’s a quiver in his voice, but he isn’t running for the door, and that alone is enough for a stupid flicker of hope to ignite in Magnus’ chest.

“I know, the official party line claims that magic was purged from Panem,” Magnus says, rolling his eyes. “Well, that’s a lie. Just like the ‘facts’ about how the districts are filled with savage, ignorant people who would burn the country to the ground if left unchecked for more than a second.”

“ _ You have magic _ .”

“It’s more common than you think. Children are born with powers every day, all over Panem. If they’re lucky, my father and his associates find them before Snow and his ilk do.”

That stops Alec short. Magnus can practically see the wheels turn in his head, the question forming in his eyes as he looks back at Magnus.

“I was born in District Nine,” Magnus says, before Alec has a chance to ask. “I worked in the fields with my mother until the Reaping Bowl drew my name. I was twelve years old the first time I saw the Capitol. The escort who brought us over on the train gave me a huge jar of sweets on the way, saying I should eat as many of them as I could. She didn’t even try to hide her disappointment at getting such an ‘unviable candidate’.”

Alec draws back in shock, and Magnus follows, pressing his advantage to keep the anger burning inside him from fading—pushing Alec’s inevitable pity as far away from himself as possible by turning it into something much sharper.

“I ‘died’ on day three. Drowned, actually. In a swamp covered with the kind of mist you’re reusing for this year’s Games. My father saved me by magic, gave me a new name and hid me in his house for long enough that everyone had forgotten what the malnourished kid from Nine had looked like. There. That’s my whole tragic backstory. Is that what you wanted to know?”

The wall of his studio stops Alec’s retreat, and Magnus feels a wild surge of pride. 

“That’s me,” he repeats. “A poor, magic district kid, who got a chance at a better life and grabbed it. It’s like something out of a telescreen story, don’t you think?”

He pushes another foot forward, and slams his hands against the wall, effectively caging Alec in between his arms. It might not feel good, but it doesn’t make him feel like he’s helpless, and that is really all he needs right now.

“Magnus, I—” Alec starts, and then they both freeze, as the unmistakable sound of approaching footsteps come from somewhere behind them.

Before Magnus has a chance to react, Alec has them propelled into a corner, hidden from view by several racks of Magnus’ upcoming fall collection.

The footsteps fade, and Magnus realises that it was probably the security guard, making his bi-hourly check of the building. He turns his head to pass the information on to Alec, and suddenly realises just how close they’re standing.

He doesn’t know who breaks first, only that his hands are suddenly in Alec’s hair, and that Alec’s are around his waist, and that both of them are tugging at each other to get as close as humanly possible. He throws out an arm for balance, moaning into the kiss as Alec pivots them and presses him up against the wall, nearly lifting Magnus off his feet in the process. Something close to them gets upended as they move, sending whatever was on it crashing to the floor; Magnus doesn’t give a fuck.

He gives back as good as he gets, pushing the anger and frustration from the past months out of himself and letting Alec’s body burn it all away. Their kisses have an almost harsh bite to them, desperate to give pleasure and then demand it right back. He hoists himself up, gets a leg around Alec’s hips for leverage as he grinds forward, letting the wave of pleasure it creates ground him in the moment. He wraps his arms tightly around Alec’s neck and does it again, a groan breaking from his throat when Alec grabs his other leg and throws that up as well, his hands finding Magnus’ ass to steady him as he fucks his own hips forward.

Magnus breaks the kiss, his lips dragging up the side of Alec’s neck, to his ear. 

“Clothes off. Now.”

Alec gasps his approval against the line of Magnus’ jaw, pressing sharp, long kisses there as he drops Magnus back down to his feet and starts working his belt open. Magnus replies in kind, pushing Alec’s jacket off his shoulders and getting his shirt open. One of his clothes racks crashes to the floor as they switch positions, and Alec narrowly saves a second one from the same fate by grabbing on to it and holding on as Magnus shoves his pants and underwear down to his thighs.

Magnus makes quick work of the front of his own pants next, pushing his clothes away just enough to get his dick out. He drapes himself over Alec’s back, mouthing wet kisses to the back of his neck as he takes himself in hand. He guides his cock between Alec’s thighs, dragging the wet head along the crack, slowly back and forth. His anger has almost burnt itself out now, and in its place is a deep throb that fills him from head to toe. He strokes his free hand up the length of Alec’s spine, beneath the fabric of the shirt he’s still mostly wearing, and it feels  _ good _ . Better than good. He guides his cock down to Alec’s balls, moaning in appreciation when Alec’s thighs close around him instinctively, letting Magnus fuck the tight heat between them.

“Jesus, Magnus, will you please fuck me already?” Alec groans, his hips mindlessly trying to follow Magnus’ every time he pulls back. His breath catches, and then morphs into a long, needy moan as Magnus presses forward again, the head of his cock catching against Alec’s balls.

“I already am.” He slides his free hand down to the small of Alec’s back, then lower still, until it’s in the perfect position to tease the rim of Alec’s hole. “Are you saying you want more?”

“ _ Yes _ ,” Alec replies immediately, pushing his hips back hard. “Fuck,  _ please _ .”

“Well, since you asked so nicely,” Magnus replies, feeling a grin tug at his lips at the frustrated groan that breaks from Alec’s throat. He leans forward, taking Alec’s ear lobe between his teeth, tugging at it lightly as he lets his magic flow to the tips of his fingers, where they’re pressed between their bodies.

Alec gasps as he feels it, his spine curving as he practically melts into the touch. “ _ Fuck _ . Is that—”

“Just relax and enjoy,” Magnus murmurs, giving Alec’s ear another playful little tug as he slides his now slick fingers inside him, setting off tiny sparks of magic along Alec’s inner walls as he goes, a hot thrill going through him every time it makes Alec moan.

It’s an amazing feeling, not having to hide his magic. Even when it’s completely hidden from view like it is now, he can tell that Alec knows it’s there. That he can feel the heat of it, the slickness and the tiny jolts of pleasure Magnus is using it for. He  _ knows _ , and instead of shying away from it, Alec’s embracing it like it’s the most natural thing in the world, pushing back against Magnus’ hand to get more of it.

“Fuck, that’s amazing,” Alec breathes out, circling his hips back. “ _ Oh _ .”

“More?”

“ _ Yes _ .”

Magnus adds a third finger, his other hand still working between his own legs, as he mindlessly continues to rub himself against Alec’s ass and thighs. One of Alec’s hands lets go of the clothes rack in front of him and reaches down and wraps itself over Magnus’, giving him a pointed little shove backwards.

Magnus grins again at the impatience, and that type of simple happiness, too, is something that’s been far too rare in his life of late. He kisses his way down Alec’s jawline, catching his mouth in a searing kiss as he fumbles for the back pocket of his pants. He finds the item he needs, and quickly gets it open and in place, closing his eyes in pleasure as he slides his fingers out of Alec and positions the head of his cock there instead. Alec pushes back immediately, obviously just as desperate to get Magnus fully inside of him as Magnus is to be there. They come together hard, the first thrust punching the breath from both their chests, and from there on, the tempo just increases.

The clothes rack Alec is holding on to falls over when a particularly good thrust has him lean on it too hard, and it’s only by sheer luck that they avoid hurting themselves as they tumble to the floor, both of them with their shirts mostly on and their pants tangled around their legs. They roll around, panting into each other’s mouths and trying to get rid of Alec’s pants at the same time as they rub against each other as much as they possibly can. Alec’s right shoe  _ finally _ comes off his foot—and with it, the offending pant leg that’s been keeping him from making proper room for Magnus between his legs. Neither of them wastes any more time after that. Magnus gets Alec’s free leg up on his shoulder and groans as he thrusts back inside, and then again, even louder, as Alec uses the momentum of the next thrust to roll them over one more time, so that he is the one who ends up on top.

“Just relax and enjoy,” Alec parrots back at him, smirking as he shifts his hips to get himself comfortable. His head drops forward as he starts to properly move, his breathing growing a little shallower every time he fucks himself down on Magnus’ cock. It’s hard and fast—a glorious mess of tangled limbs and half-discarded pieces of clothing. Magnus plants his feet firmly on the floor, his hands grabbing Alec’s thighs to get the leverage he needs to help their movement, fighting to keep his eyes open as he feels his body quickly climb towards its peak.

“Fuck,  _ Magnus _ ,” Alec moans, dropping forward unto his forearms, his cock thrusting deliciously back and forth against Magnus’ abs. Magnus reaches for it, feeling his own arousal climb even higher as he takes the hot, hard flesh into his hand.

“Oh, fuck. Fuck, fuck,  _ fuck… _ ”

Magnus increases the pressure of his hand, jerking Alec faster, fucking him harder, loving the way the sounds coming out of him turn into a continuous stream of moans and gasps, until they suddenly  _ stop _ , every muscle in Alec’s body freezing up in pleasure as he comes messily between them. Magnus throws his head back, grabbing Alec’s hips again to pull him down on his cock, riding out Alec’s orgasm with him until his own is wrenched from him, overwhelming in its intensity.

He pushes himself up on one arm, reaching for Alec’s neck with his other to pull himself up to sitting, needing Alec’s body against him as wave after wave of pleasure continue to wash over him. Alec’s arms wrap around him, holding him close almost painfully close. His mouth finds Magnus’ in a deep kiss, capturing the broken sounds that travel through each of them as their hips coax the last dregs of bliss from each other’s bodies.

Afterwards, they just breathe together, holding each other as they begin to come down. Magnus swallows, too many feelings starting to fight their way back to the surface as reality sets back in. Alec rubs their foreheads together, his hands clenching around the fabric of Magnus’ ruined shirt. The tension creeping into his body tells Magnus that what they just did is sinking in for him as well, and he mentally braces himself for Alec’s reaction.

He pulls back a little, surveying the space around them. His studio looks absolutely  _ trashed _ —clothes strewn everywhere, clothes racks overturned, a pile worth of fashion magazines mixed in with it all. He itches to call on his magic and set it all right again, but the weight of Alec still in his arms makes him hesitate.

A good reaction to his magic in the heat of the moment is one thing; Alec accepting that part of him outside of it seems a lot less uncertain. Figuring that it’s better to find out sooner, rather than later, he steels himself and turns his head back to meet Alec’s eyes.

What he sees in them makes his brain stop short. Alec looks wary, but also determined, and  _ hopeful _ —almost desperately so. He raises his hand to Magnus’ cheek, cupping the side of his face gently, and there’s a question burning in his eyes, the same kind of fear Magnus himself feels reflected back at him.

Minutes pass. They speak with their eyes, and with small, gentle touches, carefully giving each other space for that fragile hope to grow between them. It blooms in Magnus’ chest with an intensity that leaves him lightheaded. He cups Alec’s chin between his fingers and tilts his face down, letting their lips brush together in a kiss that’s sweet and achingly honest—in a way he wishes their first one could have been.

It feels like a first kiss. A new first, perhaps. 

When Alec cups his face in both hands and fervently returns it, Magnus lets himself believe it.


	6. Hurricane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As things start to feel right, everything starts to go wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're at the end! Thank you so much for reading and commenting!
> 
> Please spread the word if you liked this fic.   
> Tumblr post is [here](https://shhiatusbang.tumblr.com/post/176851073322/shhiatusbang-the-room-where-it-happens-by).   
> Twitter post is [here](https://twitter.com/shhiatusbang/status/1028000735508787202).  
> Twitter tag is **#malecgames**
> 
> Thanks so much for tuning in, everyone. <333

“We should stay here all day,” Magnus says. 

Alec sighs in reply, leaning back against the golden sheets Magnus decided to spring for last week. “I wish,” he says. “It’s almost Reaping Day. It’s going to be non-stop hysteria the second I show up at work.”

“You’ll be even more busy from now on,” Magnus surmises, raising his eyebrows and enjoying the way Alec’s expression slips into apologetic. 

“Yeah, I mean… I’m sorry, it’s just that…” 

“I know,” Magnus laughs, not able to sustain the pout. “My own schedule is going to be absolutely cramped as well. And we both have important work to do. In the meantime, however, I thought you might want this.”

He leans over to his bedside table and takes out a tape, grinning at Alec’s nonplussed face. 

“From that first night,” he clarifies. “In the studio. I remembered a few days ago that I put in security cameras last year.”

For a few more moments, Alec looks at a complete loss, but then Magnus can see realisation dawn as Alec’s face goes bright red. 

“Don’t worry,” he says, taking pity. “I’m the only one who checks the security tapes, and it’s all wiped from the server now. This is the only copy. I thought you might want it, for when I’ll have to pull a few all-nighters fitting Tribute Parade costumes and the like.”

Alec clears his throat, taking the tape with cheeks still bright red. “Thank you.”

“Thank me after you watch it,” Magnus says, leaning in to capture Alec’s lips in a slow kiss. “Now, how about we make some breakfast? It’s probably going to be the last proper one either of us gets for a while; let’s make it count.”

***

Alec’s phone rings at four AM on the first night of the Hunger Games. He’s barely had time to even fall asleep—he was up until one thirty cataloguing all the equipment already used by the tributes, and he’d been hoping to get at least five full hours before going back in. 

“What?!” he growls into the phone, until the panicked breathing on the other end of the line registers and he snaps wide awake. 

Something has gone wrong.

“They’re dying,” his intern Plutarch wails. “All of them. All the tributes. We can’t tell why! Ms Loss asked us to get everyone in; you need to get here right now.”

It takes Alec less than a quarter of an hour to get dressed and get to Gamemaker Central, and he stands in the elevator impatiently, nervously going through scenarios in his head. Unexplained deaths are usually caused by things ingested, so it’s a fair bet the heat is going to come down on Alec’s department. 

The elevator doors open onto his floor, and he walks straight into a shouting match. 

“—much more likely to be whatever you put in there!” Lindsay is yelling at Sebastian, while a little way off, Underhill can be seen gesticulating at a bunch of his interns about something. “Those roses and vines you have climbing everywhere. Do you even know if they’re poisonous?”

“Oh yeah, it’s not like you’ve seen me going over the toxicity of  _ every single thing in there _ ,” Sebastian shouts back. Behind him, Alec can see Dieudonné and his team of creepy design minions watching the whole thing with disdain, probably happy in the knowledge that they have done very little of the practical work in the Arena and thus cannot be blamed for anything that goes wrong. “Meanwhile, you’ve been going on and on about all the special features of your little insect army for the last  _ two months _ . I wouldn’t be surprised if you’d slipped up in the programming somewhere and—”

“Ms Blackwell, Mr Verlac, stop this at once,” Catarina snaps, walking towards them. “We have to start working systematically to find out what is causing this. Ah, Mr Lightwood. Have you been caught up?”

“Five tributes have died from unknown cause?” Alec says. The telescreen in his car over was playing nothing but Hunger Games updates on the way; Augusta Winkley doing her best to put a positive spin on it, but losing chirpiness by the minute. 

“We’re up to eight. So far, we haven’t been able to figure out an overlap. Mr Underhill is going over the trackers to make sure they’re not giving false alarms, and the rest of Ms Herondale’s team will be assisting us with all they’ve got. Do we have any ideas of where to start looking? Yes, Ms Blackwell, I’ve taken your comments on board already.”

“I’d just like to point out that we haven’t even released any mutts,” Lindsey barrels on anyway, until Catarina silences her with a look. 

“Has to be something they’ve eaten, right?” Sebastian says, glaring over in Alec’s direction. “What did you put in those food stashes?”

Alec just rolls his eyes in reply. “I’ll start cataloguing which supplies have been taken by each tribute, see if we can find a pattern,” he says. “I’ll take any extra interns I can get, to go over footage from the Games’ start and see if we missed anything in our initial inventory log.”

“Excellent,” Catarina says, nodding. “Get to it. Ms Blackwell, I don’t care what your release schedule was on the mutts; I still want you to go over the logs for every single one of them and bring me anything out of the ordinary. Mr Verlac, I know the vines are supposed to be slow-working poison, but put together a list of everyone who’s had a run-in with them and cross-check with the fatalities so far.” 

She breathes in hard through her nose, closing her eyes for a moment. 

“If we don’t figure out what’s causing this,” she says, “these Games will be over before they’ve even started. Get to work, and find me some solutions.”

***

Magnus follows the reporting from the Hunger Games with mounting dread. By the time the clock strikes noon on day two, only four tributes remain. All the career tributes have passed quietly in the night, Augusta Winkley is in tears and at least five angry campaigns to reset the Games and start from scratch are already in motion throughout the Capitol. 

But that isn’t what’s making Magnus’ stomach tighten with worry. What’s making him nauseous right now is the fact that around eleven AM, all the mist that has been hanging seductively around the Arena structure was suddenly blown completely away—and since that happened, no more tributes have died.

Something’s gone very, very wrong.

He finds his father in his regular bar, nursing a drink in silence as he looks out over the panoramic view of the Capitol.

“Magnus,” he acknowledges as Magnus steps into his line of vision. “Have a seat.”

Magnus does. An Avox quickly brings him a drink of his own.

“What the hell happened?”

Asmodeus shrugs, then sips again from his glass. “Seems Lilith and I agreed on something for once. Obviously that ended in disaster.”

“What do you mean?”

“Two doses instead of one,” Asmodeus replies. “Sebastian did the same bit of magic you did to the mist, and if I know him and Lilith right, their modification was nowhere as… moderate as ours.”

Magnus feels bile rise in his throat as realisation sets in. “The spells mixed.”

“Sebastian’s probably made his target anyone without magic to guarantee the victor of the Games would be one of us. He’s never been one for subtlety.”

Magnus can’t breathe. He manages to shakily put his glass down and then leans forward, dropping his face into his hands.

“Yes, we can’t pretend this wasn’t a blow,” his father continues, blithely. “The Capitol is outraged at having their summer entertainment taken away. Heads are going to roll over this one; our priority right now is to make sure they aren’t ours.”

“Children died!” Magnus exclaims. Asmodeus gives him a look. 

“We’re both well aware that it was going to happen anyway,” he says. 

“But  _ I _ wasn’t supposed to—” Magnus swallows. “It was supposed to  _ help.  _ To buy more time until we could get some of them out.”  

“This isn’t the time to get sentimental, Magnus,” Asmodeus says coldly. “What I need you to do right now is figure out if there’s any way you can be implicated, and shut it down immediately.”

Magnus shakes his head, standing up abruptly. 

“I need to go call Alexander,” he says. 

“Good. Excellent choice of scapegoat.” Asmodeus signals the Avox for a refill. “I, meanwhile, have some pieces to put into play. If you see Lilith on your way out, tell her she can find me here.”

Magnus’ head is reeling as he leaves, guilt and fear and horror mixing into one nauseating turmoil.

*** 

Alec’s phone rings while he’s trying to juggle three different tasks at once. He checks the caller ID and raises the phone to his ear, holding it in place with his shoulder as he keeps typing away on his keyboard.

“Hi. Sorry, but I’m super busy. Can I call you back?”

“I need to see you,” Magnus says on the other end of the line. The pure misery in his voice makes Alec pause.

“What’s wrong?”

“When can you get here?” Magnus asks. Alec closes his eyes and swears quietly. He knows heads will be rolling over what happened in the Games, putting each and every one of them under scrutiny. He can’t be anything less than perfect.

“How important is it?” he tries. “On a scale from one to ten?”

“Fifteen,” Magnus replies, completely seriously. Alec stops in his tracks. 

“I’ll be at your place in thirty minutes,” he says, ignoring the shocked faces of his interns, who have clearly been listening in. Alec shoots them an icy look, telling them to get back to work and mind their own business.

He takes a car over to Magnus’ place, trepidation growing with every minute. He can’t shake the feeling that whatever Magnus’ emergency is, it’s related to the Games, somehow. And the fact that he can’t see any way it  _ could _ be is fuelling his anxiety.

Magnus meets him at the door, leading Alec into his living room and gesturing at the couch. “You’d better have a seat.”

“I’ll stand, thanks,” Alec replies stiffly. Then he sees how unsteady Magnus’ hands are as he putters around with his drink wagon and takes care to soften his voice. “Magnus, just tell me. Please?”

Magnus seems to shrink in on himself. When he replies, it’s so quietly, Alec barely hears it.

“It’s my fault.”

“What?” Alec says, frowning. “What do you mean?”

“That day when I got you to show me around Gamemaker Central? I had a mission to do, and I completed it.”

The implication of his words hits Alec like a bucket of ice dropped straight beneath his collar. He can’t believe it.  _ Refuses _ to believe it. Magnus has been in the Games himself—there’s no way he would— 

He forces himself to push everything down, takes a deep breath to counter the way his head is suddenly reeling.

“Explain,” he manages, at the same time as he reaches for Magnus’ hand. Magnus takes it, wraps their fingers tightly together as he starts talking.

Alec does his best to listen as Magnus outlines his father’s plan. Have the fog react differently to anyone with magical blood: hide them better, give them additional strength to endure until they could be surreptitiously taken out of the Games the same way Magnus was. It’s a smart idea; every Arena has unseen back areas—construction tunnels, air vents, maintenance points for electricity and water, transportation lines for mutts and other equipment—and the cameras have blind spots. If a tribute “dies” in a way that makes the body inaccessible for hovercraft pickup, no one would really bother to check what happened to it. 

“What about the trackers?”

“Catarina and her associates have them well in hand,” Magnus replies. “She’s the one making sure there are loopholes to exploit in every Arena that is built; it’s her group actually taking people out. My dad simply wanted to… tip the odds in favour of magical children when it comes to who they manage to save.”

“I’m going to go out on a limb and guess that he has magic as well?”

Magnus nods. “Unfortunately, so do some other people.” Alec listens as he outlines how everything went wrong, anger surging through him as he learns who else was involved.

Sebastian Verlac. As though Alec didn’t already have enough reasons to loathe the guy.

“How do we take him down?” he asks. “There’s already an inquiry underway; everyone who worked on this Arena is going to be brought in for questioning. Is there any way to trace whatever Sebastian did back to him?”

Magnus shakes his head. “Not magically. He will have been far too careful for that. It’d have to be through behaviour or actions in his line of work. I don’t suppose he makes a habit of sneaking around other people’s labs, looking exceedingly suspicious?”

Alec racks his brains but comes up empty. Sebastian might be unpleasant and obnoxious to be around, but if there’s one word to describe his work, it’s  _ meticulous _ ; he’s hardly the kind of person to leave incriminating evidence lying around.

Magnus reads the answer off of his face, and sighs. “Right. Well, on the flip side, there shouldn’t be anything that points at me either, or at you. No one else was in that room with us.”

Alec nods, and tries to shake of the sense of dread that’s been brewing since Magnus called. If they are discovered to be part of why the Games failed, that’s not just their careers gone—the Capitol will be out for blood, in an all-too literate way.

Magnus seems to be thinking along the same lines. He pulls Alec close, and Alec can sense the rapid beating of his pulse as he hides his face against Magnus’ neck. He tightens his own arms, relying on Magnus’ solid frame to calm himself down. Slowly, but surely, his own pulse slows back down to normal.

“I’m sorry I got you into this,” Magnus mumbles against his neck. “I should have told my father to go to hell. And I didn’t.”

“If you had, would it have made a difference?”

A short, bitter laugh breaks from Magnus’ throat. “No. He would have found another way; he always does. People are little more than chess pieces to him. Including me.”

Alec swallows down the hurt that lingers in his throat. Magnus’ most recent revelation pales in comparison to all the blows his world view has been dealt since he became an official Gamemaker. And as much anger and hurt that he feels right now, Alec finds that very little of it is aimed at Magnus.

Instead of speaking, he pulls Magnus tighter against himself, letting his lips graze the side of his face, before pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his lips.

The rest of the world can wait.

***

“More champagne, Mr Bane?”

Magnus nods his thanks to the passing server, accepting a glass off her tray and raising it to his lips as he surveys the room. With no excitement to provide the telescreens, the senior staff of the Games—as well as an impressive amount of previous Victors—have taken to the parties and galas happening around the city, doing whatever damage control they can. The Games are technically still running, but with only two tributes left—neither of them interesting in the eyes of the Capitol, and both of them hiding out in a corner of the Arena with whatever food and water they managed to grab—it’s turned into a waiting game. It’s  _ boring _ —which is the worst review the Capitol has to give, and it’s been boring for the past two days, since the fog happened.

Valentine Morgenstern seems particularly desperate, Magnus notes with a spark of satisfaction. He’s not surprised; as Head Gamemaker, the success or failure of the Games is ultimately Morgenstern’s responsibility, and no amount of powerful friends is going to save him from the Capitol’s anger.

Catarina is working the room hard as well, moving between influential Capitolites, no doubt soothing ruffled feathers. Magnus is almost glad that Alec is stuck on shift back at Gamemaker Central and doesn’t have to flirt and charm his way through the night. As soon Magnus thinks it, guilt surges through him; in a way, Alec joining the brewing rebellion surrounding the Games makes keeping his position as Gamemaker all the more important. Especially if Catarina ends up losing hers.

The guilt is also of a more personal nature. He knows by now how hard Alec works, and can easily imagine how many years he’s spent pushing aside every part of himself that wasn’t his family’s ambition. Careers within the Games are absolutely cutthroat, and there are no second chances. If Alec gets fired, he’ll lose everything he’s worked for, and having turned against the Games or not, that loss is still bound to sting.

He gestures for another drink from a passing server to stave off the insecurity that naturally follows on the heels of that little realisation. He and Alec have barely begun exploring their relationship, and Magnus feels sick at the thought of having already broken his trust.

He downs half of his drink, and makes a quiet promise to himself:  _ no more _ . No matter what his father says, these Games will mark the end of everything that Magnus does for him. 

***

Three days into the internal inquiry into what went wrong with the Games, it’s Alec’s turn to be interviewed. He’s taken to a part of Gamemaker Central he’s never seen before—grey corridors without any windows, far underground. Valentine leads him into a small room and shuts the door behind them, leaving them in a small, threatening room, vacant apart from a stony-faced woman sitting in one corner. 

“Let’s have a seat,” Valentine says, indicating a chair. 

“What’s this all about?” Alec asks, indicating the room as he sits down. He notes that the woman in the corner started typing on a tablet as soon as he spoke, which makes him feel increasingly uneasy.

Valentine ignores his question. “You are, of course, aware of the trouble we’ve had at the start of these Games,” he says, jumping straight into it. “At first, as you know, we suspected some kind of malfunction. However, it’s become increasingly clear that we’re looking at sabotage.”

A cold shiver runs down Alec’s back. The fact that he’s being questioned now, instead of the day before yesterday together with his interns, suddenly seems uncomfortably deliberate. 

“No,” he says, “are you sure, sir?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

Alec swallows, deciding to go for the unknowing fool. “That shouldn’t be possible. We isolated the problem to the fog, and that should have been tamper proof. Ms Loss handled it personally.” He allows himself to pause, and then to continue in horrified realisation. “You’re not suspecting Ms Loss, are you?”

“We are, indeed, not suspecting Ms Loss at this time,” Valentine says, and Alec nods in relief, both played and real. “Tests on the fog haven’t shown any chemical abnormalities. In fact, we can’t find a natural cause for why it killed all those tributes, at all.”

Alec carefully turns his face into one of open confusion. 

“I’m not sure what information you’re hoping that I’ll have, to be honest,” he says. “None of my interns worked with Ms Loss on the fog, so I don’t think any of them could be under suspicion. I don’t believe she allowed any interference at all. It’s  _ possible  _ Mr Verlac or one of his interns assisted with some lab work, but I haven’t heard anything about it.”

Valentine narrows his eyes, then snaps his fingers towards the woman in the corner, who hands him a piece of paper. “What we want to know right now is—what _you_ were doing in Gamemaker Central at six AM, two weeks before Reaping Day?”

Alec goes cold. Desperately, he tries to figure out the correct response—how much to admit, how little to divulge. 

“Two weeks?” he says, playing for time. “Um. That was about when we finished the Arena space, right? At six A.M. I was probably home, asleep.”

“So you’re saying you were  _ not  _ in Gamemaker Central?”

“I can’t tell you for certain, because most of us worked around the clock at that point, but I usually don’t start work until 7:30 or so.”

Valentine shares a look with the woman in the corner. 

“Then how come we have your key card registered at entering the building at 5:56?”

Alec pulls his face into a frown. “What date was this? I mean, exactly?”

As Valentine tells him, Alec pretends to consider the date.

He shrugs. “I honestly don’t remember. You’d have to check the time logs; like I said, we were all working pretty much 24/7 at that point.”

“Well, as much as I admire your work ethic, we  _ have _ checked the logs,” Valentine replies. “And they show your key card being used to access several workrooms and labs on the third floor around six A.M—including the lab where the fog was held—but no activity on your computer login until after seven.”

Alec manges a shrug. “So? Maybe I was in the wood shop?”

“The one that you didn’t open the door to until 8:33?” Valentine replies.”Mr Lightwood, please, this whole wretched process will go a whole lot faster if we’re simply honest with one another.”

Alec meets his eye, taking care to keep his face politely neutral as he answers. “I’m sorry, sir, I don’t know what else to tell you.”

Valentine considers him for a long while, and then walks over to Alec’s side of the table, bending down far enough to place his mouth right next to Alec’s ear. “Well, maybe next time, you will. You have a brother and a sister, if I’m not mistaken. It would be such a shame if something casting aspersions on  _ your _ character would hurt them, don’t you think?”

Alec clenches his jaw and refuses to take the bait. Valentine puts a hand to his cheek, follows the line of Alec’s face until he has his chin between his thumb and index finger.

“Whatever you did, I’ll find out,” he says, squeezing Alec’s chin before letting him go. “Stalling just means you’ll make things harder for yourself.”

Alec stares him down, hoping his expression conveys all hurt innocence, trying to figure out what to do next. 

***

“How much does he know?” Magnus asks. Alec is sitting in his living room, his head in his hands. 

“He knows I was there at the time. I’ve been trying to go for unknowing, but that isn’t going to hold up once they run out of other suspects. My key card was used, and they know I’m not careless enough to let others use my card.”

Magnus leans back in his own chair, trying to think. 

“There’s really no way for you to throw Sebastian under the bus?” he tries. Alec groans. 

“I tried, believe me. And I’ve considered all my interns, but most of them aren’t actually that awful. And besides, it doesn’t fit. None of them have the skills to manipulate the fog that way. Right?”

Magnus winces. He’s already been down that route—no one working in Alec’s department, apart from Cat and Sebastian, has magic, which is what President Snow will be discreetly looking for at this time. And if they can’t deflect blame onto a specific person, their only recourse is to throw them off the scent completely. 

“In that case,” he says, “we may have to resort to lying with the truth.”

Alec lifts his head. “What did you have in mind?”

There’s just enough of an undernote of desperation in his voice that Magnus can force back his reservations and push on ahead. “Think about it. What kind of scandal would turn the Capitol’s heads even quicker than that of a Junior Gamemaker being complicit in sabotaging the Games? And what other reason could a Junior Gamemaker have to be all over Gamemaker Central at an hour when no one else was there?”

He adds a meaningful look, then points to the corner of his ceiling, where a security camera sits innocently pointed at the front door, and sees the exact moment that Alec gets it.

“It’s just an option,” he adds, because it’s important for him that Alec knows this—that Alec knows that, in this at least, they are fully on the same side. “But I think it could work. Valentine won’t be able to drag this inquiry out—he needs to give Snow an explanation he can act on, before the Capitol starts aiming their anger in Snow’s direction. The Games won’t last another 48 hours, which will make them the shortest, most disappointing Hunger Games in decades. We only need to stall for time.”

Alec lets out a long, measured breath. Magnus can practically see the way his brain is running through different scenarios. 

“We’d both get kicked off the Games the minute it hit the news.”

Magnus nods in agreement. He holds up a hand, mimicking a headline splashed in the air in front of them. “ _ District Eight Caught Trying to Cheat the Games! Read All about the Torrid Seduction Scheme Raging Behind the Scenes at Gamemaker Central! _ ” He lowers his hand back down. “Power plays, secrets and sex, the perfect Capitol trifecta.”

Alec winces. “So that’s the story? You’re the vile seductor and I’m the stupid mark who couldn’t resist falling on your dick?”

“In order to throw both Snow and Valentine off the scent, we’d both need to take a big hit when it came to our characters,” Magnus argues. “You’re younger than me, and you’ve been portrayed as the new, fresh face of the Gamemakers to the Capitol this season. Whereas I’m a controversial designer who likes to party. It’s the casting that makes the most sense.”

_ Besides, it’s fairly close to the truth _ . He stops himself from actually saying it. From the way Alec’s eyes suddenly blaze with anger, he figures the words are pretty much written across his face anyway.

“You’re wrong,” Alec states firmly. “I might not have known about your dad’s plans, but I knew the risks of getting involved with a representative of one of the Districts. So unless you want to tell me that this—us—was all just a game to you, then—”

“ _ No _ ,” Magnus interrupts him fervently, his right hand shooting out and grabbing Alec by the neck, pulling him close. “I’ve told a lot of lies for my father. Nothing I’ve said or done with you is part of that.”

Alec catches his lips in a searing kiss, pulling Magnus close and keeping him there until they’re both weak and panting, holding on to each other for support.   

After a small eternity, Alec presses his lips tightly together, and pulls away. Then he turns back to Magnus, resolve burning clear and bright in his eyes. 

“Let’s do it.”

***

“Alec Gideon Lightwood, what the  _ hell _ were you thinking?!”

His mother’s voice is barely higher than a hiss, but she might as well have been screaming. She’s in his apartment, clearly having waited for him to get home with his proverbial tail between his legs. After a solid three hours of being interrogated, reprimanded, fired, and having to do a walk of shame in front of his former colleagues, Alec is really not in the mood.

“Hello, mom. It’s nice to see you, too.”

“Don’t ‘hello, mom’ me,” Maryse snaps. “I want you to explain how, after  _ years _ of hard work and money poured into your career, your father and I have reporters and photographers camping outside our gate, flashing  _ lewd pictures of our son’s genitals _ in our faces!”

Alec flinches, despite his best efforts to stop it. He knew it would come to this. Still, his mom’s expression is worse than anything he steeled himself for—he expected disappointment, but this is  _ hurt _ .  

“Did you ever consider how this would affect Max?” she asks, her voice cracking. “Do you know what names they’re calling you? What his  _ classmates _ are saying about his brother?”

“Mom,” he tries. “It isn’t what—it’s all been twisted.”

“And how does that help us?” Maryse closes her eyes, breathes in hard through her nose. “I can’t believe you’d let yourself be duped like this. A  _ stylist _ ? You had to  _ know  _ what this would turn into!”

“I never shared anything secret about—”

“That doesn’t  _ matter _ !” she explodes. “It doesn’t matter what you  _ did _ ! What matters is  _ perception _ . I’ve taught you this—every day of your life I’ve prepared you for what life in this city is like, and you throw it away for  _ what _ ? Some silly summer romance, a dalliance with some stylist  _ slut _ —” 

“He’s  _ not! _ ” 

He hears the change in his own voice, almost as shocked at it as his mom obviously is. 

“He’s not,” he repeats, taking a carefully measured breath to keep himself under control. “I know what it looks like—enough that I don’t fully blame you for coming to the worst possible conclusion—but I’m telling you that it’s not like that. You’ve worked on the Games; you know what they’re like. This year’s were fucked beyond belief; of course people would be looking for someone to replace their own head on Snow’s chopping block.”

He takes a deep breath, and then goes in for the kill. “Come on, mom. Do you really think I’d be stupid enough to risk making a sextape in the first place, never mind  _ careless _ enough to just leave it around for someone to find and sell to the press?”

He stares his mother down, refusing to blink as he watches her process his words. This is the other part of his and Magnus’ plan: a double-bluff; implying that their highly convenient scandal was arranged by someone higher up the ladder, to distract everyone from the Games themselves.

His mom isn’t stupid, and her hatred for Valentine has only grown since the time they worked together. Alec sees her draw exactly the conclusions he expected. 

“That  _ worm _ ,” she says. “That  _ scheming _ little  _ monster _ of a—”

She cuts herself off and breathes in, settling herself into the calm mask he remembers aspiring so much to, once. “I’m sorry, Alec. This may all have been bigger than you realise.” She touches a hand to his cheek, briefly. “I’m sorry you got caught up in it. I’m not sure what can be done about it at this point, though. A sex scandal is quickly forgotten, but from the Capitol’s perspective, you and that stylist tried to skew the odds of the Games, and that’s something that will  _ not _ be easily forgiven.”

“I know, mom,” Alec says, completely sincere in how dejected his voice comes out as he sighs and pulls a hand through his hair. “Believe me, I know.”

His mom stays for only a little bit longer after that, assuming a careful air of normalcy, working through their remaining small talk of family matters on autopilot. As she leaves, Alec feels himself torn between the relief of everything working out as planned and something more like guilt. Somehow, he can’t shake the feeling of betrayal, even though he also knows that what he’s betraying is a world he doesn’t believe in any longer. 

He thumbs a number into his phone, relieved when Magnus picks up almost immediately. 

“She bought it,” he says. “Now, what do you say we get out of here for a while?”

“Darling, you read my mind,” Magnus replies from the other end of the line. “Tell me when and where and what to pack; I’m more than ready for a  _ very _ long vacation.”

Alec smiles, an idea slowly forming in his mind. “Victory airfield, tomorrow at nine. I have a friend who owes me a favour.”

***

“I can’t  _ believe _ you talked me into this.”

Alec, who’s further ahead on the path and doesn’t seem to be affected by the exertion at all—the bastard—turns to grin at Magnus. “Come on, isn’t it even a little bit fun?” 

“It isn’t exactly what I was envisioning when we talked about taking a holiday to get away from the chaos of the Capitol. There are insects  _ everywhere _ here and our house is made of  _ fabric _ .”

“It’s called a tent,” Alec says. “And look at it from the bright side, there isn’t a single reporter around.”

“True,” Magnus concedes. “That is a point in its favour. How did you manage to shake them?”

“Izzy disseminated about four different rumours about where we’d gone throughout her model circles. The most popular ones are a spa in District One and a rented yacht tour in District Four. I think very few people will be looking for us on the hiking trails of District Seven.”

Magnus laughs shortly, because that’s an understatement, if anything. “Definitely. For anyone who knows me, it’s only  _ slightly  _ above taking a tour of District Twelve mines. And Elias will be telling anyone who asks that I’m hiding out in District Eight and sampling inspiration for my next collection, so that should muddy the waters even more.”

Alec grins at him. “How’s Elias doing, by the way?”

“You hear more from him than me, these days,” Magnus says, grinning back. “You tell me.”

“We mostly communicate by bank transfers,” Alec replies, sardonic. “But he’s parcelling out the money he got from ‘leaking’ the tape for us to the tabloids in monthly installments. It’s going to keep us afloat for a long time yet.”

Magnus looks at him closely, searches for any sign of discontentment in Alec’s face. Unlike Magnus, whose fall collection is selling like there’s no tomorrow—he’s received several  _ exorbitant  _ offers for items directly off the rack featured in the background of their now infamous sex tape—Alec’s career choices are severely limited until enough time passes for the Capitol to forget about all the excitement and money they lost on the 53rd Hunger Games. And while Magnus knows that Alec (same as himself) has received several offers for a career in adult entertainment, it will likely be several years before he’ll get offered a job he wants to accept.

And in the meantime, they can spend their time preparing for the change they both know needs to come. Together.

“It’s fine,” Alec says, as though he can hear Magnus’ thoughts. “This will blow over eventually. There will always be a place for Clave-trained people in the Capitol, in however minor roles. I’ll have to lay low while my mother works to transform my shame into an attack on my character, but I’ll be employable again eventually.”

He holds out his hand, and Magnus takes it, unsure about who of them is supposed to be the one comforting the other. In the end, it doesn’t matter. He wraps his fingers around Alec’s and holds on tight, taking a moment to simply stand next to him, breathing in the fresh forest air.

They move forward eventually, pushing themselves up another incline, then one more, and then yet another, as Magnus endures the now sadly familiar sensation of his sweaty shirt sticking to his back.

“Here it is,” Alec says finally, checking the holo map projected from his wristband. “Just ahead.”

He pushes a fir branch aside, clearing the path to an open ledge. They step out together, and look out over the valley below, turned rose and gold by the setting sun. 

For a long time, they stand in silence, their hands clasped tight together. 

“Do you ever wonder what it was like?” Alec says at last. “Before the war, I mean?”

“Sometimes. There were people in the town where I grew up who were old enough to remember it. They used to tell their stories as we worked in the fields—carefully, of course, so that none of the Peacekeepers were listening in.”

“So what did they say?”

“I don’t know,” Magnus replies with a sigh. “It’s all jumbled. Memories and wishes—reality and utopian fairytale. I think, in a way, we’ll never be able to go back to whatever life was before—there’s too many hopes and fears attached to it. I think the only way now is forward. Finding something new together.”

He sits down on the ground, closing his eyes as he breathes in the scents of the forest. It is nice out here, he thinks. Vast and infinite in ways that make you liable to think about forces larger than yourself—unrestrained and  _ hopeful _ in ways that Snow and his cronies definitely can’t afford.

It’s no wonder every citizen of Panem is bound to a city, he thinks; it makes sure they’re pulled back from their fields, prairies, seas and woods as often as possible. It’s a dangerous thought, probably more so than any he’s let pass through his head before. And yet, as soon as he thinks it, Magnus knows it’s the truth: any future freedom for Panem will need to come from the Districts, where that spark of infinite potential can keep itself alive.

“What are you thinking?” Alec asks, knocking his shoulder gently against Magnus’ as they watch the sun start to dip beneath the horizon.

Magnus turns towards him, and leans in for a kiss.

“Nothing,” he says, pulling Alec closer to him. “Nothing at all.”

“You’re lying,” Alec replies, and Magnus can feel the way his lips turn into a smile against his own. “But I don’t mind.”

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're at the end! Thank you so much for reading and commenting!
> 
> Please spread the word if you liked this fic.   
> Tumblr post is [here](https://shhiatusbang.tumblr.com/post/176851073322/shhiatusbang-the-room-where-it-happens-by).   
> Twitter post is [here](https://twitter.com/shhiatusbang/status/1028000735508787202).  
> Twitter tag is **#malecgames**
> 
> Thanks so much for tuning in, everyone. <333


	7. Epilogue: Who Lives, Who Dies, Who Tells Your Story?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The orphanage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please feel free to listen to the last track of Hamilton obsessively. We know we have.
> 
> Comments are love!  
> Twitter tag (if you feel so inclined) is #malecgames

“Madzie! Get out of the lake and dry off, please; we have visitors coming soon!”

A tight, happy ache blooms in Catarina’s chest as she watches the young girl in the water narrow her eyes and dive beneath the surface. When they got her out of the Games, Madzie didn’t speak, and barely even moved—now she’s a  _ child _ , a gleefully, stubborn, mischievous,  _ wonderful _ one—and Cat couldn’t be prouder.

“Miss Cat, Peter is up in the trees again,” Elliot complains next to her, pointing towards a tall birch nearby. “I told him he wasn’t allowed to, but he wouldn’t listen. He  _ never _ listens.”

Cat looks in the direction he’s pointing, and sure enough, she catches sight of the green tunic and cap that Peter likes to wear between the branches. He’s high up too—if Cat didn’t know how well his flying was developing, she might be worried.

“I’ll get him down. Why don’t you go find the others and bring them back to the house?” she replies. “Is Mr Tigelaar back from his visit to the cottage yet?”

“Not yet, I don’t think,” Elliot says. “I think Balinor went with him, actually. Miss E is training some new creature, and he wanted to take a look. He said this one had  _ scales;  _ go figure.”

Catarina rolls her eyes fondly and shoos the young man away. She looks after him as he jogs across the lawn, towards the woods, and marvels at how much he, too, has grown. Elliot Nourse is no longer the timid fourteen year-old they managed to pull out of a carnivorous maze in the 46th Games nine years ago, that’s for sure.

She walks into the house and into the kitchen, pulling a cold drink from the fridge and allowing herself the luxury of popping down on the couch and kicking her feet up for a moment. Less than five minutes later, she hears the tell-tale swirl of a portal, and two people coming closer.

“My dearest Catarina,” Magnus says, walking up behind her and putting his hands on her shoulders to start kneading at the muscles there, “don’t tell me the children are running you ragged again; it simply won’t do.”

Cat smiles, leaning into her friend’s touch for a moment before turning around. “Magnus. I’m glad you could make it over.”

“Are you kidding, Alec simply  _ loves _ to be out in the wild,” Magnus replies. “He decided we’d go camping in District Seven again for our honeymoon, if you can believe it.”

“It wasn’t  _ camping _ , it was a luxury lodge with 24h butler service,” the man standing a few paces behind Magnus replies, fondly exasperated. “Magnus just likes his drama.”

Magnus winks at him. “That’s not what you said when that briar patch—”

“Oh, look! Other people in the room with us!” Alec exclaims, shooting Magnus a pointed look. “So, Cat, how are you doing? Madzie and Balinor settling in okay?”

Catarina hides a smile, and then another one as she gestures for Magnus and Alec to take a seat. “They’re good. Balinor was touch and go for a few days after we pulled him out, but we got him stable. Main challenge with that one will be to stop him from trying to run back to his girlfriend in Twelve—he seems to think that, because he’ll be eighteen in a month, he should be able to take that risk for all of us, so we’re working on that. And Madzie is just lovely. She goes to the lake every day, exploring her underwater magic. I’m half expecting her to grow gills any day now.”

She notices how Alec lights up when she talks about Madzie, and feels another pang of happiness. She remembers him stumbling through a Magnus-made portal during the second week of the Games earlier this year, a large bundle in his arms, dripping wet and nearly blue from the cold. With her tracker turned off by sympathetic hands within Gamemaker Central, Madzie had been almost impossible to find, and Alec had spent more hours than was wise looking through the underground passages of the Arena before he finally found her in a flooded air vent. 

“It’s good that I trained under you,” he’d said, teeth chattering as he handed Madzie over. “I know Arena construction by now.”

Magnus has found a  _ good _ partner, at last. And Cat couldn’t be happier for him. She waves her hand, making Magnus’ and Alec’s favourite drinks appear in their hands. “How long can you stay?”

“No more than a few days,” Magnus replies, regretfully. “I need to be back in the Capitol by Monday to start prepping for the fall fashion shows.”

“I can stay on for another week,” Alec says. “The scandal of our… everything finally died down enough that I was able to get an office job this spring. It’s data analyst work—nothing fancy—but it’s regular hours, meaning I can take a couple of vacation days and hang out here.” 

“Madzie will be happy to spend some time with you, I think,” Cat says, smiling at him. “She has been talking about you.”

Alec lights up even more. “She has?”

“She wants to show you how she can dive properly now. Take some scuba equipment and you can go with her into the lake. Fair warning, I think she has a pebble collection down there.”

Magnus snorts into his drink, and then a second time when Alec simply looks enchanted by the idea. “Is there a conversation I should be furiously side-stepping?” he asks, grinning at Alec, who raises a single eyebrow back at him in challenge.

“Oh, come on, you’re even worse than me,” Alec replies. “How many of Cat’s former kids do you have working for you, exactly?”

“Six, as of right now,” Magnus tells Catarina proudly. “And I might have another assistant dressmaker position opening up soon, if there’s someone who’d be suitable for it?”

“We’ve been thinking about how to spread our message as well,” Alec adds. “If we could place people out in the Districts, we could recruit faster, and canvas for magical children that need to be pulled out at the same time. Magnus is negotiating for permission to build a new weaving factory in District Eight that we could use as a base of operations.”

Catarina smiles into her drink. It’s been fascinating, watching Alec go from a Capitol tin soldier, following his mother’s life plan without reflection, to this happy man plotting large-scale subterfuge as though he’s planning a lunch—leaning across to Magnus’ chair with casual intimacy.

Catarina is  _ so happy _ for them.

“It all sounds amazing,” she says. “But let’s leave the practicalities until after dinner, all right? Elliot!”

Elliot pokes his head into the room. 

“Is everyone ready?” she asks him, and he rolls his eyes. 

“Almost. The little arsonist is hiding again—you know what she’s like…”

Catarina laughs. “She’s just getting a hang of her powers, Elliot. But I’ll remind her again about leaving your letters alone.”

As Magnus laughs behind her, she crosses to the front door and looks across the lawn—out over the sanctuary she’s built over these past decades. 

“Eliza!” she shouts, cupping her hands to her mouth. “Dinner! I’m not waiting for you again!”

She sees an answering flare go up from the woods, and smiles to herself. 

“She’ll be here soon,” she tells Magnus and Alec. “Just needs a little more time.”

“We have all night,” Magnus replies easily. “Now, Catarina, are you ready to tell us why you  _ really _ asked us here today?”

His voice is light and casual as he asks the question, but Cat knows him well enough to hear the mix of intrigue and worry underneath. She waves a hand, freezing parts of the air into a soundproof barrier around them, and reaches for a note in her pocket.

She hands it over to Magnus without a word, watching his jaw drop, just like hers did when she first read the news.

“What does it say?” Alec asks, his spine straightening as he leans forward in his chair.

Magnus clears his throat. “It’s District Thirteen,” he replies, his eyes dark and serious as they move from Alec’s to hers and then back again. “According to this missive…  _ they might still be alive. _ ”

**Author's Note:**

> This story is part of the [LLF Comment Project](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/llfcommentproject), which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates feedback, including:
> 
> Feedback
> 
>   * Short comments
>   * Long comments
>   * Questions
>   * Constructive criticism
>   * “<3” as extra kudos
>   * Reader-reader interaction
> 

> 
> [LLF Comment Builder](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/post/170952243543/now-presenting-the-llf-comment-builder-beta)
> 
> Author Responses  
> This author replies to comments.


End file.
